LAKE  FOREST  ACAI>KM¥ 

UBRARY. 


THE    PASSING    SHOW 


The 


Passing  Show 

Five  Modern  Plays  in  Verse 


K 


BY  HARRIET  MONROE 


BOSTON  and  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON,   MlFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 

press,  Cambri&0c 
1903 


I 

I 

I 
c 


COPYRIGHT  1903  BY  HARRIET  MONROE 
ALL  RIGHTS   RESERVED 


Published  November 


M.75-3 

-KUX^U 

I 


Go,  book  of  me,  to  the  one  who  knows  — 

If  one  there  be. 
Tea,  bear  me  where  that  spirit  goes, 

And  set  me  free. 


M559929 


CONTENTS 

The  Thunderstorm  i 

At  the  Goal  51 

After  All  67 

A  Modern  Minuet  77 

It  Passes  By  87 


THE   THUNDERSTORM 

A  Play  in  Two  Acts 


PERSONS    OF   THE   PLAT. 

JOHN  MATHER. 

ADELA  MATHER,  his  wife. 

STEPHEN  MATHER,  his  brother. 

DEXTER  DALTON. 

LAURA  DALTON,  wife  to  Dexter. 

FELIX  MERIVALE. 

Lois  DALE. 

The  action  takes  place  at  the  country  house  of  John 
Mather,  during  a  summer  afternoon  and  evening. 


The 

Thunderstorm 


ACT  I. 


SCENE.  —  ^he  large  living-room  of  a  suburban 
house,  with  a  broad  screen  door  and  windows 
opening  on  a  roofed  veranda.  Lois  DALE, 
at  the  window,  is  watching  the  heavy  rain, 
while  STEPHEN  MATHER  listlessly  fumbles 
magazines  on  the  table.  'Time,  late  afternoon. 

Lois.  The  rain  would  drown  the  summer  if  it 

dared. 
Deep  in  a  thick  gray  sea. 

Stephen.  It  pours  like  mad. 

Lois.  See  the  whipt  trees  praying  for  mercy  ! 

Stephen.  Yes  — 

A  nice  time,  this,  to  ask  a  crowd  from  town  ! 

Lois.  Do  you  remember  — 

Stephen.  What  ? 


4      THE   THUNDERSTORM 

Lois.  Those  lovely  lines  — 

That  poem  of  your  brother's  which  has  made 
The  lost  world  sing  forever  to  the  rain  ? 

Stephen.  Remember  ?  —  No  !  —  John  and  his 
poetry  ! 

Lois.  How  will  you  answer  the  avenging  gods 
For  such  contempt  ? 

Stephen.  The  gods  will  take  my  part. 

A  man  should  play  his  role. 

Lois.  And  if  your  brother 

Were  born  to  be  a  poet  ?  — 

Stephen.  He  would  be  one, 

Instead  of  making  steel. 

Lois.  Of  course  —  how  simple 

A  thing  it  is  to  live ! 

Stephen.  Genius  will  out. 

Lois.  If  all  the  happy  stars  conspire.    If  not, 
Who  can  persuade  the  stars  ? 

Stephen.  Has  he  done  nothing? 

Steel  is  the  better  for  him. 

Lois.  Yes,  and  so 

You  will  not  loose  your  hold.    If  he  were  born 
For  singing,  and  this  yoke  upon  his  neck 
Were  bound  by  all  the  indissoluble  ties ! 
Your  father  dying  then,  his  brave  career 
To  be  fulfilled ;  your  mother,  sisters,  you 


THE   THUNDERSTORM       5 

To  serve  !   Ah,  could  a  poet  be  a  man, 
Loving  and  living,  and  deny  these  claims  ? 
But  now  — 

Stephen.  And  you  would  solemnly  convince 

me 

That  he  should  drop  the  mills  and  give  himself 
Forever  to  the  muse  ! 

Lois.  Give  him  himself. 

I  care  not  whether  he  make  steel  or  verses, 
So  he  be  free. 

Stephen.  Pshaw !  —  you  are  crazy  too. 

*T  is  merely  madness  with  him,  mere  excess ; 
One  of  his  ways  of  rioting.   Who  knows 
What  new  fantastic  license  he  may  take 
When  the  wild  mood  is  on  ? 

Lois.  What  happens  when 

The  steam  that  ought  to  turn  a  thousand  wheels 
Finds  its  vent  closed  ? 

Stephen.  What  a  fine  tragedy 

You  build  us  out  of  common  clay  like  ours, 
Here  in  the  suburbs  ! 

Lois.  Tragedy  should  dwell 

In  mediaeval  palaces  afar, 
Trailing  her  purple  robes  ! 

Stephen.  Perhaps  it 's  you 

Who  are  the  poet. 


6      THE   THUNDERSTORM 

Lois.  If  it  were  —  alas !  — 

Rather  this  tempest  beating  on  my  head 
Than  to  be  housed  in  here  ! 

Enter  Laura  Dalton. 

Laura.  What 's  to  be  done  ? 

No  golf,  no  riding,  nothing  in  the  world  — 
But  — 

Stephen.  Talk  to  me. 

Laura.          Who  could  ask  more  than  that  ? 
Where 's  John  ? 

Stephen.  So  —  always  John.    What  do  you 

want 
With  John? 

Laura.       To  be  amused. 
Stephen.  Will  no  one  ask 

My  gifted  brother  for  a  moon  or  two  ? 
He  has  a  special  line  of  moons. 

Laura.  The  sun  will  do  — 

A  little  sunshine. 

[Lois  goes  through  the  screen  door  and  walks 
up  and  down  on  the  broad  roofed  veranda, 
watching  the  rain ;  then  sits  down  out  of 
sight. 

Stephen.  Lois  tires  of  us. 

Laura.  No  wonder! 

Stephen.  Does  your  ladyship  intend 

A  compliment  ? 


THE   THUNDERSTORM      7 

Laura.  With  you  in  such  a  temper, 

Why  should  she  stay  ? 

Stephen.  With  you  seeking  another, 

Should  I  be  gay  ? 

Laura.  Oh,  you  are  wearisome. 

Stephen.  If  so  to  you,  what  am  I  to  myself? 

Laura.  A  god,  I  half  suspect. 

Stephen.  Since  I  adore 

A  goddess  ? 

Laura.         Go  adore  some  human  girl, 
And  marry*  her,  my  boy,  and  so  be  sure 
To  have  one  worshiper  forever. 

Stephen.  Sure !  — 

Of  any  woman  ? 

Laura.  Oh,  how  cynical ! 

How  most  profoundly  wise  ! 

Stephen.  And  if  I  have 

A  cynic's  wisdom,  many  thanks  to  you, 
Who  teach  me  day  by  day. 

Laura.  Poor  sufferer ! 

Have  I  not  sins  enough,  and  heavy  enough 
That  you  should  burden  me  with  yours  ? 

Stephen.  One  sin 

You  have  —  you  like  to  watch  me  in  the  cage. 
But  some  fine  day  I  '11  break  it. 

Laura.  And  be  free  ? 

Nothing  would  please  me  more. 


8      THE  THUNDERSTORM 

Stephen.  Yes,  it  would  please  you 

To  feel  my  claws  at  last. 

Laura.  And  recognize 

At  last  the  animal. 

Stephen.  You  guileless  women  — 

With  your  conventional  morality ! 
What  would  become  of  all  your  principles 
In  any  more  indecorous  land  or  age 
Than  this,  I  wonder  ? 

Laura.  So  —  are  these  your  claws 

I  do  not  like  them.  * 

Stephen.  Hm  !  this  is  a  growl  — 

No  more. 

Laura.  Why  should  I  listen  to  your  growls  ? 
[She  takes  a  book  from  the  table  and  sits 
down  to  read.    He  walks  up  and  down. 
A  pause. 

Stephen.  It  rains. 

Laura.  Ah  —  does  it? 

Stephen.  Once  upon  a  time 

There  was  a  deluge. 

Laura.  Really ! 

Stephen.  Your  book 

Is  quite  absorbing. 

Laura  {yawning ).     Yes  —  "  Degeneration," 
The  cheerful  German  outlook. 


THE   THUNDERSTORM      9 

Stephen.  It  is  queer 

How  many  pages  some  men  will  consume 
To  show  what  fools  they  are. 

Laura.  And  other  men 

Must  prove  it  in  their  deeds. 

Stephen.  Yes,  but  with  us 

The  truth  is  not  blazoned  before  the  world ; 
It  lies  between  one  woman  and  oneself. 

Laura.  Not  always. 

Stephen.  Do  you  mean  — 

Laura.  Oh  yes,  I  mean 

Only  last  night  my  husband  laughed  at  you. 

Stephen.  Damn  him ! 

Laura.  What  would  you  do,  I  wonder  now, 
In  any  world  less  decorous  than  this? 

Stephen.  Kill,  I  suppose. 

Laura.  And  here  you  can  do  nothing 

But  make  yourself  ridiculous. 

Stephen.  Take  care  — 

You  go  too  far. 

Laura.  Oh,  let  me  read. 

Enter  Dexter  Dalton  and  Felix  Merivale. 

Dalton.  Not  here ! 

He  must  be  drowned,  I  think.    Laura,  wake  up. 
What  shall  we  do  to-night  to  outwit  the  storm  ? 

Laura.  Give  it  its  will. 


io    THE   THUNDERSTORM 

Dalton.  I  fancy  we  shall  have  to 

There,    out-of-doors.     But    here,   under    this 

roof — 
Come,  let  us  challenge  it. 

Laura.  Do  —  what  to  do  ?  — 

As  though  one  could  be  merry  by  design  ! 

Merivale.  A  vaudeville ! 

Dalton.  This  literary  juggler 

Will  toss  a  novel,  essay,  play,  and  poem 
All  in  the  air  at  once. 

Merivale.  This  connoisseur 

Of  law  and  art  will  make  miraculous  leaps 
Upon  the  double  trapeze. 

Laura  (pointing  to  Stephen ).  And  there  is  one 
Who  at  a  wink  will  swallow  swords  of  fire. 

Stephen.  If  you  provide  them. 

Dalton.  And  the  lady  there 

Shall  wield  the  whip  and  keep  us  in  the  ring. 

Laura.  The  ladle,  do  you  mean  ? 

Merivale.  Ah,  you  have  heard 

The  story  of — 

Stephen.         Of  course  we  have. 

Merivale.  The  story  — 

Dalton.  Which  is  it  ?    Who  will  guess  ? 

Merivale.  A  new  one,  friends ; 

And  apropos  —  about  a  punch-bowl. 


THE   THUNDERSTORM     11 

Stephen.  New ! 

As  though  he  could  for  even  a  single  day 
Keep  a  new  tale  unprinted  ! 

Merivale.  And  if  not 

'T  is  you,  my  unappreciative  friends 
Who  are  to  blame.    You  force  me  to  appeal 
To  the  wise  public. 

Stephen.  Happy  public ! 

Laura.  Come  — 

Tell  me  the  tale.    I  am  extremely  wise, 
And  sympathetic  as  a  summer  breeze. 

Stephen.  Beware ! 

Laura.  Tell  me  the  tale. 

[Laura  and  Merivale  sit  down  in  a  corner 
to  talk.  Dalton  has  been  examining  a 
landscape  on  the  wall. 

Dalton.  Ah,  what  a  touch  ! 

Where  did  John  dig  up  this  Cezanne  ? 

Stephen.  In  Rouen. 

Some  little  local  dealer  did  n't  know 
What  he  had  got  and  sold  it  for  a  song. 
You  like  it  ? 

Dalton.  It 's  a  gem.    What  modeling  ! 

^The  very  pulse-beat  of  the  sun  !  It 's  queer 
What  that  old  vagabond  divined  before 
Monet  put  brush  to  canvas.    See  that  sky  — 


12    THE   THUNDERSTORM 

Brazen,  relentless,  dreaming  of  a  storm  ! 
I  have  seen  skies  like  that. 

Stephen.  Have  you,  indeed  ? 

I  doubt  if  Cezanne  ever  did. 

Dalton.  But  look  — 

He  painted  it. 

Stephen.  Ah,  did  he  ?  I  hate*  pictures, 

Damn  them  at  random,  don't  pretend  to  know  ; 
But  John  adores  that  medley  just  because 
The  painter  stopped  halfway.   Your  brazen  sky 
Is  the  bare  canvas. 

Dalton  (confused}.    On  my  soul,  it  is  ! 
Just  like  Cezanne. 

Stephen    (lighting  a  cigarette).    To   trip   his 

worshipers  ? 

Alas,  these  connoisseurs  !  Why  not  admit 
That  you  and  I  don't  know  a  thing  about  it  ? 

Dalton.  This  light,  you  know  —  the  storm  — 

Stephen.  Ah,  yes  —  I  know  — 

It  is  the  light,  of  course. 

Laura  ( looking  around).   Tell  me  the  quarrel. 
What  are  these  gibes  ? 

Stephen.  Nothing  —  we  were  admiring 

Cezanne's  relentless  sky. 

Laura.  Look  out,  my  jewel. 

I  always  said  this  sudden  zeal  for  art 
Would  get  you  into  trouble. 


THE   THUNDERSTORM     13 

Dalton.  Look  at  her  ! 

Impeach  my  connoisseurship,  if  you  dare, 
Before  that  picture.    She  refutes  the  slander, 
And  makes  me  proof  against  the  jeering  world 
And  all  the  freaks  of  genius. 

Stephen.  Yes,  I  knew 

She  could  work  miracles. 

Dalton.  Come,  Merivale, 

And  help  me  down  this  Philistine. 

Merivale.  Young  David 

Suing   for    help !    The   rain   has   spoiled    my 

weapons  — 
I  am  as  sluggish  as  a  crocodile. 

Laura.  We  are  a  stagnant  pool.    Yet  if  some 

hand 
Should  throw  a  single  stone  into  its  depths  — 

Stephen.  What  hand  ? 

Merivale.  What  stone  ? 

Laura.  Anyone  !  anything ! 

Oh,  I  am  tired  of  sitting  on  the  rim 
And  staring  at  my  inner  consciousness. 

Merivale.  Where  is  Miss  Dale  ?  Ask  her  to 
throw  the  stone. 

Stephen  ( contemptuously ).    Lois ! 
Enter  Adela  Mather. 

Adela.  Where  is  she  ?  Yes,  and  John  is  gone. 
I  have  been  looking  for  him  everywhere. 


14   THE   THUNDERSTORM 

Stephen.  Portentous  ! 

Adela.      He  's  not  here —  not  in  the  house. 

Laura  (rising  abruptly).  But  she  is  ! 

Adela.  Where  ? 

Laura.  She  was  —  where  did  she  go  ? 

Adela.  Well,  where  ? 

Stephen.     Don't  be  alarmed  —  she's  on  the 

porch. 

Why  are  you  always  rushing  here  and  there, 
And  doing  this  and  that  ? 

Adela.  How  can  I  help  it, 

Married  to  him  ? 

Stephen.  Let  him  alone  !  Good  heaven  ! 

Send  him  to  China,  or  the  pyramids, 
And  see  if  this  unconscionable  world 
Can  get  along  without  him. 

Merivale.  There  are  others. 

Stephen.  Perhaps. 

Merivale.  Well,  we  shall  see. 

[Exit  Merivale  to  the  porch. 

Adela.  If  I  could  know 

Just  once  what  he  would  do  that  very  minute, 
I  might  have  hopes  of  ease. 

Stephen.  You  never  will. 

Adela.  I  must.    Oh,  for  a  husband  like  the 
rest, 


THE   THUNDERSTORM     15 

Who  travels  in  the  road  and  does  not  wander 
Through  every  sunny  field  ! 

Laura.  Faith,  what  a  wish  !  — 

A  husband  like  the  rest  ! 

Dalton.  Faith,  what  a  slur  ! 

See  how  they  love   us,   Mather,  —  these   our 

wives  ; 
And  then  go  find  one. 

Stephen.  He  who  puts  his  trust 

Upon  a  woman  — 

Laura.  Is  a  Solomon 

Compared  with  her  who  pins  her  faith  upon 
A  man. 

Adela.  They  are  such  infants,  and  of  all 
The  children  who  blow  bubbles  in  the  sun, 
John  is  the  willfulest. 

Laura.  Then  give  him  up, 

And  let  him  blow  his  bubbles.    After  all, 
They  shine. 

Stephen.      And  burst. 

Laura.  Well,  most  things  do  —  alas  ! 

So  why  not  sparkle  if  you  can,  before 
The  suffocating  tragedy  ? 

Adela.  Meantime 

I  shall  go  mad  of  sheer  bewilderment. 
My  brain  is  tired  with  following  him,  with  trying 


16    THE   THUNDERSTOR 


M 


To  think  ahead  of  him. 

Stephen.  The  brains  of  women 

Were  never  made  to  think.   'T  is  not  alone 
Yourselves  you  tire  by  thinking. 

Laura.  Thought  is  slow, 

Roundabout  —  masculine,  in  short.    But  we  — 
We  know  without  it. 

Stephen.  Far  too  well. 

Adela.  Then  tell  me  — 

How  does  it  stand  with  Lois  ?    Will  she  take 

him  ?  — 
For  I  can  neither  think  nor  do  I  know. 

Laura.  Well,     Merivale     is     famous,     rich 

enough, 
And  most  persistent  — 

Stephen.  And  a  poet,  too  — 

Laura.  The  people's  own.    And  Lois  — 

Stephen.  And  our  Lois 

Is  thirty-one. 

Adela.  What  does  she  care  for  that  ? 

Laura.  What  you  or  I  or  any  woman  cares. 
And  yet  — 

Adela.        Well  — 

Laura.  Yet  I  dare  not  say  she  '11  do  it. 

Stephen.  Then  she  's  a  fool. 

Laura.  Yes — doubtless.    Women  are 

Frequently  fools. 


THE   THUNDERSTORM     17 

Adela.  If  she  should  let  him  go 

She  would  deserve  all  the  hard  knocks  and  more 
That  fate  has  given  her. 

Laura.  Yes  —  poor  girl  —  deserve 

To  play  at  odds  with  life  till  death  comes  by 
And  pities  her. 

Enter  Lois  and  Merivale/r0;#  the  porch. 

Lois.  I  fear  for  you. 

Merivale.  Alas  — 

Throttle  your  conscience. 

Lois.  Novels  rushing  out 

From  the  hot  press  in  legions,  editors 
Clamorous  for  a  line,  three  plays  at  once 
Crowding  three  houses,  critics  on  their  knees  — 

Merivale.  Well,  since  they  would  not  take 

my  best  —  alas  !  — 
I  had  to  do  my  worst. 

Lois.  The  grateful  people  ! 

How  richly  they  reward  the  lucky  man 
Who  gives  them  what  they  want !  come,  friends 

and  foes, 

What  shall  we  do  to  dim  his  lucky  star 
And  save  this  laureled  victor  from  success  ? 

Merivale.  Is  she  not  kind  ? 

Lois.  Success  the  sycophant, 

Whose  smile  hides  treachery,  who  fawns  and 
serves 


i8   THE  THUNDERSTORM 

That  so  man  may  forget  and  be  her  slave ; 
Success,  who  holds  his  weakness  then  by  threats 
And  whispered  fears  ;  who  hides  the  truth  from 

him 

And  the  stern  front  of  justice,  and  at  last 
When  she  has  won  him  wholly,  till  his  soul 
Is  mirrored  in  her  eyes,  casts  him  away 
To  all  the  dogs  of  ruin. 

Laura.  To  your  knees, 

And  pray  the  gods  for  failure.* 

Merivale.  I  am  saved. 

Success  may  do  her  worst  —  it  is  not  much, 
While  this  philosopher  despises  her. 

Dalton.  She  's  not  so  bad  —  I  think  that  even 

to-day 

If  she  should  offer  me  her  poisoned  cup 
I  'd  drink  it  to  the  dregs. 

Stephen.  And  ask  for  more. 

Lois.  Yes,  that 's  the  way  with  us.    And  so 

even  you, 

With  million-dollar  cases  in  your  office 
And  masters*  masterpieces  on  your  walls  — 
Even  you  have  not  enough. 

Dalton.  No  —  not  enough. 

These  million-dollar  cases  in  the  courts, 
That  stay  there  with  their  millions ;  and  these 
pictures, 


THE   THUNDERSTORM    ig 

That  hide  their  secrets  from  the  rich  and  great 
To  tell  them  unto  babes  !  Ah,  do  not  fear ! 
Success  ?  —  there  's  no  such  thing  ! 

[John  Mather,  who  has  entered  the  house 
unperceived  from  the  other  side,  in  riding 
dress ,  and  thrown  off  a  wet  cape  and  hat  in 
the  hall,  now  walks  in  quietly.  His  top- 
boots  and  trousers  are  splashed  with  mud 
and  rain. 

^John.  Despise  it  then. 

D  alt  on.  Well,  you  're  a  spectacle  ! 
Laura.  God  of  the  storm  ! 

Adela.  O  John,  what  have  you  done  ? 
Lois.  Blown  with  the  gale  ! 

What  did  the  thunder  say  ? 

"John.  It  said  —  ride  fast, 

And  loose  the  world  like  me! 

Stephen.  Fine  day  for  riding. 

John.  Glorious !   for    ten    thousand   shining 

demons 

Joined  in  the  race,  slapping  their  saucy  sides. 
Laura.  And  did  you  beat  them  ? 
John.  Else  how  am  I  here  ? 

Look  —  the    storm   nods;    the  rain    falls    sul 
lenly, 
Heavy  and  straight  and  languid.    But  at  first 


2O    THE   THUNDERSTORM 

The  fallen  gods  crossed  swords  with  gods  of 

light 
For  a  lost  world. 

Lois.  Which  side  had  your  allegiance  ? 

John  (smiling).    My  friend  the  devil  deserves 

my  loyalty. 
Has  he  not  played  me  fair  ? 

Adela  (who  has  hurried  out  and  returned  with 
a  glass  of  whiskey-and-water). 

Here,  John,  drink  this. 
You  '11  take  your  death. 

John.  Death  would  be  sweet  to  take  — 

A  green  place  by  the  dusty  road,  a  pause, 
A  silence.    Speak  no  ill  of  death  !    But  this  — 
Pale  counterfeit  of  life  !  Give  it  to  Dalton, 
And  help  him  change  the  color  of  his  world. 

Dalton  (taking  it).    If  ever  a  color   needed 
changing  — 

Laura.  Yes  — 

We  have  been  gray  —  ashes  and  mud  and  lead. 
Show  us  the  gold. 

Stephen.  Being  a  poet. 

John.  Ah  — 

Who  told  you  ? 

Stephen.  Lois  tells  me  that  the  muses 

Wear  mourning  for  you. 


THE   THUNDERSTORM    21 

John.  Lois  knows  them. 

Lois.  Hush ! 

I  dream  of  them,  but  in  their  sacred  groves 
You  walk  anointed. 

John.  Then,  by  all  the  gods, 

This  day  we  climb  Olympus.    Let  us  have 
Revels  to  match  the  tempest,  set  our  feast 
Above  these  quarreling  clouds,  and  for  a  night 
Make  the  immortals  envious ! 

Lois.  What  are  we  — 

To  brave  the  gods ! 

Laura.  Immortals,  too  !    The  word 

Is  given  —  I  feel  the  aureole  'round  my  hair. 

Stephen.  Beware  !  —  the  earth 's  a  comfortable 
place. 

Dalton.  But  tiresome,  though.    Let's  try  the 
other  sphere ! 

Merivale.  Myself  have  had  some  commerce 
with  the  gods  — 

John.  And  found  them  docile,  did  you  ?  You 

shall  be 
Apollo,  with  the  morning  in  your  eyes. 

Merivale.  A  pretty  tribute  to  my  beauty  ! 

Lois.  Yes  — 

And  talents  manifold. 

Laura.  And  I  — 


22    THE   THUNDERSTORM 

John  (bowing  low).  And  you  — 

Who  else  but  Aphrodite  ? 

Stephen.  By  that  token, 

I  will  be  Mars. 

Da/ton.  A  proper  role  ! 

Lois.  Nay,  Jove  — 

Ruler  of  gods  and  men. 

John.  Yea,  so  he  is  ; 

Jove  of  the  cheque-book,  the  great  modern  god, 
Who  keeps  us  groveling  mortals  at  our  work. 

Stephen.   Poor  Jupiter,  whom  all  obey  and 

fear! 

If  I  am  he,  who  may  not  be  beloved, 
Beware  my  lightnings  ! 

Adela.  Who  am  I  then  ? 

Laura.  Juno  — 

The  queen  of  heaven  and  mistress  of  the  world. 

Adela.  A  pack  of  empty  titles  ! 

Lois  (to  John).  Piteous, 

Tragic  beyond  the  cunning  of  the  fates, 
Is  each  new  comedy  you  choose  to  play. 

John.  Then  play  it  to  the  death  ! 

Lois.  I  cannot  hear 

Your  words  for  voices,  nor  can  see  you  there 
For  ghosts  that  rise. 

John.  Defy  them  !  —  if  you  don't 


THE   THUNDERSTORM    23 

They  strangle  you.    Behold  her  —  she  is  Pallas, 
With  wisdom  on  her  lips  — 

Lois.  And  pain  at  heart. 

John.  Would  you  be  wise  and  happy  both  ? 

Not  here, 

Not  even  on  high  Olympus  may  you  brave 
The  envy  of  the  gods.    Hear  me  once  more  ! 
The  word  goes  forth  that  may  not  be  recalled. 
Dalton  is  Hermes  —  Hermes  the  quick-witted. 
Light-footed,  and  light-fingered. 

Dalton.  Ha !  —  and  you  ? 

John.  And    I    am   Bacchus  —  he    has  whis 
pered  me  !  — 

Bacchus,  the  god  of  revels.    If  I  know  him, 
He  is  the  only  sane  one  at  the  feast ; 
He,  sad  with  too  much  joy,  and  heavy-witted 
With  too  much  knowledge,  who  alone  of  all 
At  loaded  tables  may  forbear  —  behold, 
I  place  his  chaplet  on  my  brow,  and  now 
Summon  you  in  his  name.    When  the  clock 

grows 

Fat  with  big  hours,  meet  me  and  have  your  will, 
Immortals  all ! 

Laura.  To  hear  is  to  obey. 

John.  Go  and  prepare  your  souls  —  each  one 

alone. 
Lose  the  dark  world  — 


24   THE   THUNDERSTORM 

Adela.  But,  John,  it 's  dinner-time. 

John.  He  dines  who  will — I  fast  before  the 

feast. 

Dreams  are  the  meat  to  feed  on  when  the  earth 
Sinks  like  a  stone,  the  meat  to  make  us  bold 
Among  the  stars,  our  peers. 

Lois.  To  make  us  mad. 

John.  And  if  there  's  joy  in  madness  — 

Merivale.  Let  us  go  ! 

Dreams  or  a  dinner  —  there  's  the  choice. 

Stephen.  I  choose 

What  I  am  sure  of. 

Laura.  There  thou  liest !  Nay, 

What  he  is  never  sure  of  does  man  choose  — 
'T  is  Aphrodite  speaks. 

Merivale.  And  Jupiter, 

Who  hates  the  truth  like  other  crowned  kings 
Heeds  not  the  blasphemy. 

Dalton.  The  word  is  given. 

Away —  each  to  communion  with  his  soul  ! 

Stephen.  Or  stomach. 

Adela.  Heavens  !  what  next ! 

Lois.  The  word  is  given. 

When  the  black  hours  grow  big  — 

John.  When  each  has  won 

His  secret  from  the  silence,  come  again. 
(CURTAIN.) 


ACT  II. 

SCENE. —  The  dining-room,  with  a  round  mahog 
any  table  set  as  at  the  end  of  a  supper.  A 
screen-door,  at  right,  opens  on  the  veranda. 
It  is  after  midnight.  'The  supper  is  over, 
but  the  people  are  toying  with  nuts,  candies, 
wine-glasses,  etc.,  and  plenty  of  champagne 
is  cooling  on  the  buffet.  Some  of  the  party 
are  drawn  up  to  the  table,  others  have  left 
it,  others  recline  classically  on  couches.  'They 
wear  costumes  ridiculously  significant  of  the 
gods  whose  characters  they  assume,  or  of  the 
modern  import  of  those  gods ;  such  draperies 
and  emblems  as  they  could  make  up  im 
promptu  from  the  resources  of  the  house  and 
garden,  and  wear  or  carry,  usually  over 
their  ordinary  dress.  JOHN,  as  Bacchus,  has 
the  head  of  the  table,  with  LAURA,  as  Aphro 
dite,  in  a  costume  charming  but  rather  dar 
ing,  at  his  right.  His  wife,  as  Juno,  reclines 
on  a  couch  opposite  him,  with  MERIVALE,  as 
Apollo,  and  LOIS,#J  Pallas,  near  her.  STE 
PHEN,  as  Zeus,  reclines  lazily  at  the  rear, 
with  DALTON,  as  Hermes,  beside  him. 


26    THE   THUNDERSTORM 

John.  Now  ye   have  feasted,  fill  your  cups 

again  ! 

We  feed  on  things  that  perish,  and  from  them 
Take  the  immortal  essence,  and  so  dare 
To  know  whither  and  whence,  and  bear  un 
wearied 

The  burden  of  the  suns.    Lift  the  wine  high, 
And  tell  us,  with  its  nectar  on  your  lips, 
Your  errand  in  a  sacrilegious  world 
That  would  forget  the  gods.    What  make  ye 

here, 
Banished  long  since  in  shame  ?    Great  Jove  the 

king, 
What  mak'st  thou  here  ? 

Stephen.      .  Since  I  am  Jove  the  king, 

Why  should  I  talk  ?    Deeds  are  my  line,  not 

words. 
My  only  voice  is  thunder. 

Laura.  Dost  thou  find 

The  hearts  of  mortals  changed  ? 

Stephen.  How  should  I  know, 

Who  never  think  ?    I  'm  running  railroads  now 
And  drawing  cheques.    The  world  was  but  a 

garden 

When  I  was  young  —  now  it 's  a  factory.        * 
Well,  it  is  easier  to  handle  so, 


THE   THUNDERSTORM    27 

With  all  mankind  going  the  self-same  way, 
Doing  the  self-same  thing. 

Laura.  And  yet  to  me 

'T  is  the  same  wanton  world.    Now  as  of  old 
Men  make  a  great  ado  of  business  — 
War,  trade,  and  tyranny  —  yet  now,  as  then, 
They  live  and  die  for  love. 

John.  Hush  !  dost  thou  dare 

Utter  the  secret  word  ?    Banish  the  thought 
From    our    chaste    company,    lest    it    should 

bring 
Madness    more    rash    than    sparkles    in    this 

wine. 

Athene,  from  thy  deeps  beyond  calm  eyes 
Teach  her  the  joys  of  wisdom. 

Lois.  Ignorant 

Thou  art,  to  deem  that  joy  is  wisdom's  quest. 
Serene  she  is  and  selfless  her  desire. 
Beyond  the  lowly  haunts  of  joy  and  sorrow 
She  ranges  with  the  stars. 

Laura.  And  so  on  earth 

Has  little  influence. 

John.  And  so  on  earth 

Has  more  than  we,  showing  the  way  to  spurn  it, 
And  thus  be  free.    She  is  the  enemy  — 
None  but  her  do  I  fear.    For  all  ye  others 


28    THE   THUNDERSTORM 

This  drug  has  sleep  or  madness.  Drink  it  down, 
And  let  Apollo  soothe  us  with  a  song. 
Tune  up,  sweet  brother,  or  thy  muses  nine 
I  '11  fuddle  one  by  one. 

[They  drinky  all  but  John  and  Lois,  who 
merely  touch  their  glasses.  Merivale  rises , 
strikes  his  banjo^  and  chants  his  song  to 
its  accompaniment. 

Adela  (to  Dal  ton).    What  fools  we  are ! 
T)  alt  on.    Can't  help  it,  I  suppose; — it's  in 

the  air. 
Merivale. 

I  am  Apollo,  who  of  yore  in  groves  abided 
With  maidens  nine  to  hark  enchanted  to  my 

song. 
I  am  Apollo,  who  upon  the  sun  resided, 

Driving  through  heaven  the  fiery  coursers  all 

day  long. 
To  me  came  embassies  from  suppliant  states  in 

sorrow, 
To  me  came  hearts  at  war  and  fearful  of  their 

doom ; 

For  out  of  yesterday  I   dragged  the   shy  to 
morrow, 

And  lo,  her  eyes  avowed  their  rapture  and 
their  gloom. 


THE   THUNDERSTORM    29 

But  to-day  't  is  a  different  role 

That  the  tired  world  bids  me  play; 
I  who  chanted  of  old  to  its  soul 

Must  amuse  the  poor  world  to-day. 
So  I  hint  at  a  thousand  loves 

In  a  delicate  medley  of  rhymes, 
And  I  thrill  when  the  spirit  moves 
v     Over  popular  wars  and  crimes. 
But  who  cares  what  I  sing  to  my  lyre? 
It  is  lost  in  the  roaring  of  fire, 
For  in  clamorous  towns  I  dwell 
Near  the  steel-forged  gates  of  hell. 
John.    A  toast  —  Apollo,  though  his  voice  be 

lost, 
His  seven  strings  snapped ! 

All  Apollo ! 

\¥hey  rise  and  drink  the  toast y  as  before. 
Merivale.  Sweet  immortals, 

As  I  am  modest,  turn  your  favor  from  me. 
Why  should  I  speak  when  Juno,  queen  of  heaven, 
Is  silent  ? 

Adela.     Do  not  vex  your  soul  for  her. 
Juno  was  always  out  of  it,  poor  thing  !  — 
Poor  fool ! 

Stephen.     Great  Sister,  consort  of  my  state, 
What  brings  thee  earthward  now  ? 


30   THE   THUNDERSTORM 

Adela.  I  do  not  know. 

Did  Juno  ever  know? 

Dalton.  Juno  is  here 

To  guard  her  interests ; — that 's  my  business  too. 
But  mine  have  multiplied  since  thieves  became 
So  numerous,  the  tricks  of  trade  so  deep. 
Wings  are  not  swift  enough  —  I  need  to-day 
Railroads,  the  telegraph,  the  telephone ;   ^ 
And  even  then,  so  dull  are  grown  the  gods, 
These  men  outwit  me. 

John.  Hermes,  god  of  trusts, 

Of  strikes  and  lock-outs  and  combines.    At  last 
We  have  no  need  of  Mars  —  look,  he  is  ban 
ished  ; 

For  nimble  Mercury,  the  unscrupulous, 
Is  the  great  modern  god  of  war. 

Dalton.  Ah,  yes. 

Mars  cut  a  dash  at  first  —  the  blusterer  !  — 
But  I  have  undermined  his  credit,  even 
Married  his  sweetheart,  you  observe. 

Laura.  He  's  rich, 

A  good  provider  —  how  could  I  resist  him, 
Who  need  so  much  of  late  —  such  palaces, 
And  gowns  ? 

Merivale.     Since  he  has  grown  so  powerful, 
A  toast ! 


THE   THUNDERSTORM    31 

Him  let  Apollo  praise 

Who  '11  pay  for  singing ! 
When  withered  are  the  bays 

And  love  's  a-winging, 
Money  is  good  as  new  — 

It  fails  us  never. 
Give  to  the  giver  his  due  — 

Hermes  forever ! 
John  (to  Laura).    Behold  how  low  the  gods 

are  fallen. 

When  even  you,  the  queen  of  love  and  beauty, 
Drink  to  the  lord  of  lies. 

Laura  (softly  to  John).    The  queen  of  love  !  — 
But  if  I  may  not  speak  my  one  .great  word, 
What  then  is  left  but  lies  ? 

John  (aloud).  Thou  shalt  speak  all.  — 

To-night  all  words  are  uttered. 

Laura  (softly).  If  thine  ear, 

Wherein  my  word  would  rest,  will  hear  it  not, 
Then  speech  is  but  a  lie. 

John.  Not  mine  alone  ! 

If  stars  reveal  their  souls  and  have  no  fear, 
Lo,  shall  we  wear  the  world's  hypocrisies, 
We  who  beyond  the  stars  may  range  at  ease  ? 

[Standing,  with  brimming  glass  lifted. 
Drink  —  to  the  truth,  for  now  the  truth  is  ours, 


32    THE   THUNDERSTOR 


M 


Now  we  are  gods.    The   truth !    The  veils  are 

torn, 

The  masks  are  buried  with  mortality, 
And  he  who  lies  must  do  it  to  high  heaven ! 
The  truth !    Vain  is  denial,  vain  —  more  vain 
Is  silence  ;  yea,  unutterably  vain 
The  rags  we  wear  to  hide  us  from  ourselves. 
Thus  to  the  light  lift  up  your  brimming  souls 
And  let  their  secrets  break  upon  your  lips ! 
The  truth ! 

\They  rise,  and  lift  glasses  high  to  accept  the 

toast,  saying :  — 
Many  voices.    The  truth! 
Lois.  Does  moody  Bacchus  dare 

Summon  the  truth  —  the  god  who  maddens  her 
With  wine,  and  smothers  her  with  sleep,  who 

fears 
To  meet  her  level  eyes  ? 

John.  Mad  or  asleep, 

Then  only  doth  she  flee  the  bounds  of  sense 
And  shake  her  great  wings  free.    The  truth  !  — 

she  's  mine, 

By  all  her  dreams !  mine,  by  the  sudden  lights 
That  flame  her  frenzied  eyes !    Think  you  to 

find  her, 
Led  by  blind  owls  of  learning?  —  I  have  hated 


THE   THUNDERSTORM    33 

The  owl  since  long  ago  he  hooted  me 

In  Nysa's  groves.    The  truth  —  beware  of  her, 

Lest  her  swift  fires  consume  thee ! 

Lois.  She  is  mine  — 

For  love,  not  fear.    She  dwells  in  quietness 
With  wisdom,  and  the  peering  paths  of  science 
Lead  to  her  grove.    My  votaries  are  hers, 
And  they  outrun  swift  Hermes  with  his  wings, 
Yea,  rob  Jove  of  his  lightnings. 

Stephen.  Haughty  maid, 

Beware  those  lightnings !    Truth  is  mine  alone, 
For  power  is  mine,  and  truth  is  power.     . 

Merivale.  Nay,  mine ; 

For  what  is  truth  till  it  be  uttered  ?    Mine, 
By  all  the  muses  ! 

Laura.  Words !  vain,  boastful  words  ! 

None  of  ye  knows  the  truth. 

John.  In  beauty  alone  — 

Laura.    Nay,  not  in   beauty  nor  song  nor 

power  nor  wisdom, 
Nor  yet  in  madness  dwells  the  truth. 

Stephen.  Then  where  ? 

Laura.    'Tis  hence  —  ye  have  no  power  to 

summon  it. 
'T  is  with  the  absent  god. 

John.  Drink  to  him  then  — 

Challenge  the  absent  god ! 


34   THE   THUNDERSTORM 

Laura.  And  dost  thou  dare  ? 

John.   Why  not  ? 

Laura.  The  insidious,  vengeful,  jeal 

ous  god, 

Who  even  on  the  immortals  has  no  pity  — 
Invoke  him  not ! 

John.  Great  Eros,  now  to  thee 

We  pour  this  golden  wine.   Bring  us  the  truth  — 
Yea,  though  thou  strip  and  scourge  us,  lash  it 

home, 

That  we  may  know  the  utmost,  dare  the  worst, 
And  so  be  free ! 

[They  drinky  as  before. 

All  but  Lois.      Eros  ! 

Merivale  (to  Lois).       Your  heart 's  a-cold  ! 
You  will  not  drink  to  Eros  —  then  beware 
His  vengeance  ! 

Lois.  What  shall  wisdom  fear? 

Merivale.  To  die 

Of  thirst  at  last. 

Stephen.  Immortals,  will  you  take 

This  potion  he  has  mixed  to  make  us  mad 
And  let  him  pass  it  by  ?    No,  by  this  lightning  ! 
Down  with  it,  Bacchus  —  do  not  sit  and  stare 
While  we  sink  deeper  in  your  cups. 

Da/ton.  Take  heart  — 

'T  is  not  so  bad,  this  potion. 


THE   THUNDERSTORM    35 

John.  Bacchus  gives 

Freely  his  wild  delights.    Yea,  all  but  he 
May  know  the  rapture,  compass  for  an  hour 
The  rounded  heavens  and  mount  their  peaks 

of  fire ; 

While  he,  alone  with  dull  satiety, 
Must  brood  upon  their  bliss. 

Laura.  Who  ever  thought 

Bacchus  would  grow  so  eloquent  ?   Taste  the 

cup, 

And  with  its  magic  on  thy  lips,  thy  song 
Shall  make  Apollo  envious. 

Merivale.  Try  it  then, 

And  take  Apollo's  laurels  if  thou  canst ! 

John.    The  cold  green  leaves  —  keep  them  ! 

For  me  the  fruit, 
Heavy  and  rich  and  red ! 

Stephen.  Down  with  it  then  ! 

Dost    hear  me  ?  —  I   am  Jove  !    Search   thine 

own  truth 
Even   to   the   dregs.    Drink,  for  the  gods  all 

thirst 
Till  Bacchus  drinks. 

Laura.  Soften  your  heart  with  wine, 

That  Aphrodite's  word  may  sink  as  deep 
As  burning  coals  in  snow. 


36   THE   THUNDERSTORM 

John.  What  says  she  there, 

That  face  of  stone  ? 

Lois.  Nothing. 

John.  What  thinks  she  there, — 

She  in  whose  thought  we  float  like  silver  moons, 
Lofty,  a-cold.    She  doth  despise  too  much. 
Look,  when  I  lift  the  glass  how  her  eyes  glare ! 
Laura.    Bacchus !    a  toast !    a  toast !    With 

brimming  cups 
We  wait  the  magic  word. 

Dalton.  A  song  !  a  song ! 

Tune  up  Apollo's  lyre  —  I  found  it  first. 
'Tis  thine  to-day. 

John.         Your  hearts  !  give  me  your  hearts, 
And  let  them  beat  the  music  of  my  song. 

(He  sings.) 
Fill  full  your  deep  goblets,  immortals  ! 

Dark  red  be  the  flood  ! 
For  we  who  would  pass  the  dream  portals 
Must  drink  our  heart's  blood. 
We  must  drink  our  heart's  blood ! 

Red  wine  !  with  all  life  like  a  jewel 

Dissolved  in  the  cup  — 
Love,  faith,  yea,  and  glory  the  cruel  — 

Fill  full,  fill  it  up  ! 

Fill  it  full,  fill  it  up ! 


THE   THUNDERSTORM    37 

Give  all !  be  it  God  or  the  other 

Who  takes  it  at  last ! 
Drink  deep  !  't  is  a  sob  that  we  smother, 

A  die  that  is  cast. 

'T  is  a  die  that  is  cast. 

\Led  by  Stephen,  they  laugh  and  lift  glasses 

with  nervous  hilarity. 
Lois.    Horrible  !  horrible  ! 
Merivale.  Oh,  toss  it  off! 

Laugh  that  you  may  not  weep. 

Lois.  Weep  —  weep  forever  ! 

Let  the  world  drown  in  tears ! 

John.  What  does  she  say  ? 

Lois.    This  —  that  across  your  path  I  lay  my 

sword : 
You  shall  not  drink  that  cup. 

Adela.  Shall  not,  indeed  ! 

John.  Your  sword !  is  it  not  always  in  my  way? 
Laura.    Forward  !  it  is  not  dangerous. 
Stephen.  What  folly ! 

Lois.    Oh,  for  God's  air !  oh,  for  the  sound  of 

wings  ! 
Here  there  are  flames  and  creeping  things. — 

Come  out 
Into  the  storm. 


38    THE   THUNDERSTORM 

John.  And  then  — 

Lois.  You  cannot  do  it  — 

And  sing  your  soul  away.    Do  you  not  see 
The  pit  there  ?    Look  —  you  will  not. 

Adela  (to  Lois).  Who  are  you 

To  take  command  here  ?    Let  him  have  his  way, 
So  't  is  not  yours  ! 

Laura.  Adela ! 

Adela  (to  Laura).  You  as  well ! 

All,  all  these  elbowing  women !  Give  me  room — 
I  suffocate. 

Laura.    Good  God ! 

Adela.  Mummers  and  masks  ! 

Is  it  not  clear  as  day,  your  pretty  game  ? 
I  have  a  role  to  play. 

[During  these  speeches,  the  people  drop  par 
tially  their  disguises ,  so  far  as  they  may  be 
easily  and  instantly  cast  off. 

Stephen  (to  Laura).    Have  you  had  enough? 
Is  this  the  truth  we  drank  to  ? 

Laura.  Do  not  touch  me  ! 

Stephen.    So  —  it  is  he  ;  you  follow  with  the 

crowd. 

Faugh  !  is  there  not  one  byway  in  the  world 
But  I  must  find  my  brother  at  the  end  ? 
Go  —  you  will  never  reach  him.    My  revenge 
Is  safe  with  him. 


THE    THUNDERSTORM    39 

Laura.  I  cannot  hear  nor  see  you. 

My  soul  is  sick  with  loathing  you. 

Stephen.  Poor  fool ! 

Where  have  I  been  these   blind  and  babyish 

years  — 

Cringing  even  to  abhorrence !    It  is  over. 
Out  in  the  Klondike  or  the  Philippines 
I  will  go  find  the  man  in  me.    Say  more, 
Brave  sister  —  you  alone  are  wise  ! 

Adela.  More  —  more  ! 

My  head  aches  with  it  and  my  heart  is  sore. 
Lois.   You  have  begun  —  speak  now. 
Merivale.  That  we  may  learn. 

Lois.    And  all  the  world. 

[John  Mather,  standing  pale  and  still  in  his 
place,  has  lowered  his  glass  at  Lois' 's  first 
word.  When  Adela  says,  "  /  have  a  role 
to  play"  he  slowly,  his  eyes  fixed  on  Lois 
and  hers  on  him,  pours  away  the  wine  in 
it.  'Then  Lois  faces  Adela  almost  buoy 
antly,  and  her  words,  "And  all  the  world  " 
are  said  with  radiant  joy.  John  strikes 
the  table,  breaking  the  glass,  and  addresses 
the  crowd. 

John.  'T  is  done,  our  little  day, 

For  greater  days  have  come.  Give  up  its  ghost  — 
Away ! 


40   THE   THUNDERSTORM 

Adela.    No,  no,  for  she  must  speak. 
Lois.  'Tis  true. 

We  two  have  still  a  word  ere  the  day  ends. 
Give  us  our  sacred  hour. 

John.  Then,  shadows  all, 

Pale   maskers,  mocking   wraiths    of  gods   that 

were, 
Let  us  go  seek  the  dawn. 

Stephen.  Where  is  the  dawn  ? 

Merivale.    Better  the  darkness  — 
Adela.  Gather  up  your  rags, 

Lest  I  should  strip  them  off.    What  do  I  care 
Who  shrieks  or  shivers  ?    Patience  has  had  her 

day  — 
Let  truth  have  hers  ! 

Laura.  Horrible  !  horrible  ! 

('To  Dalton.)    Take  me  away. 

Dalton  (to  his  wife).  If  truth  must  have 

her  day, 
Where  shall  we  find  it  ? 

Laura.  Oh,  I  am  afraid  ! 

Take  me  away ! 

[Dalton  gives  his  hand  to  Laura,  and  des 
perately  they  hasten  out.   John  turns  to 
the  two  men. 
John.  Well,  is  it  not  enough  ? 


THE   THUNDERSTORM   41 

Merivale  (to  Lois).    Will  you  not  leave  with 

me  this  place  of  storm  ? 

The  crowding  feet  will  trample  you,  the  mad 
ness 

Will  pass  and  leave  you  cold.    Ah,  what  is  life  ? 
A  compromise  —  to  win  we  must  concede. 
You  shall  have  much,  and  even  this  day  at  last 
Shall  be  forgotten.    Come  ! 

Lois.  This  day  is  mine — 

For  all  the  rest,  I  know  not.    It  is  useless. 
My  tale  is  told. 

Merivale.          I  read  it  to  the  end, 
Here  in  your  face  —  and  shut  the  book  forever. 
Steve,  the  play  closes. 

Stephen.  Leave  them  to  their  war. 

The  hour  has  struck  for  you  and  me.    Our  war 
Is  with  the  fate  that  struck  it,  in  the  day 
That  dawns. 

[Led  by  John,  the  three  men  go  out. 

Adela.          .    At  last  we  meet. 

Lois.  To  meet  no  more. 

Adela.    I  see  you  as  a  shadow  in  my  path, 
A  thing  I  cannot  wound  nor  crush,  that  makes 
A  night  around  my  soul. 

Lois.  But  what  of  him  ? 

Who  cares  for  you  and  me  ? 


42    THE   THUNDERSTORM 

Adela.  Is  he  not  mine — 

Mine  by  the  law,  mine  by  his  vows? 

Lois.  Yours  —  yours ! 

It  would  be  funny,  this  fond  claim  of  women  — 
This  mine  and  thine  —  if  it  were  not  so  sad. 

Adela.    Whose  is  he  then  ? 

Lois.  Whose  then  is  everyone? 

He  is  the  world's  —  and  God's. 

Adela.  Not  for  your  pleasure 

You  try  to  steal  away  his  soul  from  me, 
But  for  the  world,  and  God ! 

Lois.  His  soul,  say  you  ? 

I  found  it  on  the  highway,  beaten,  robbed, 
And  left  for  dead.    Should  I  have  passed  it  by 
With  all  who  looked  and  passed? 

Adela.  Samaritan ! 

Then  it  was  charity  that  brought  you  here  — 
Here  to  my  house. 

Lois.  Ah  !  have  you  won  the  right 

To  invoke  the  ancient  laws?    What  long  ob 
servance 

Has  made  your  house  a  temple  ?    Where  is  lit 
Its  altar  fire  ? 

Adela.  I  Ve  done  the  best  I  could. 

Lois.    'T  is  not  enough  then. 

Adela.  And  should  he  do  nothing  ? 


THE   THUNDERSTORM   43 

He  married  me,  he  pledged  his  love  to  me, 
And  I  —  poor  fool  —  fancied  the  tale  was  over, 
And  nothing  left  to  tell  but  happiness. 
Alas  !  the  bride-flowers  withered  in  my  hands, 
Dried  up  and  blew  away  like  dust.    My  own, 
My  right,  the  one  thing  bound  to  me,  escaped 

me. 
I  am  lost  in  the  huge  world. 

Lois.  You  held  him  close 

To  keep  him  for  yourself  who  is  for  all.     , 
Where  are  the  songs  you  should  have  bade  him 

sing, 
The  sons  you  should  have   borne  him  ?   You 

denied  him 
Life,  that  will  never  be  denied. 

Adela.  Life  — life! 

Was  not  the  problem  difficult  enough 
Without  all  these  ?    Must  I  bear  children  too 
To  tease  my  strength  away?    I  gave  him  all, 
And  what  he  gave  was  but  a  residue  — 
The  little  left  through  all  the  thievish  days, 
When  song  and  art  and  business  and  the  world 
Had  taken  their  plunder.    And  for  even  that 

little 

The  women  troop  like  hounds  upon  the  trail, 
And  I  must  watch  in  silence. 


44   THE   THUNDERSTORM 

Lois.  Did  you  give  ? 

Give  more  then.  I,  who  find  him  in  the  pit, 
See  not  your  gift  upon  him,  and  your  voice, 
Calling,  I  do  not  hear. 

Adela.  He  will  not  take 

What  I  can  give,  and  though  I  shriek  aloud 
He  hears  me  not. 

Lois.  The  shriek  is  your  own  woe, 

The  gift  a  chain. 

Adela.     And  you  would  bid  him  break  it  — 
You  and  this  questioning  age,  which  undermines 
All  that  was  sure  in  our  unstable  world. 
Oh,  how  I  hate  it  all !    Hear  now  my  word ! 
I  honor  more  the  creature  on  the  street, 
Sinning  for  lust  or  greed,  than  her,  the  spotless, 
Whose  delicate  dalliance  lures  the  souls  of  men 
And  cheats  the  law.    By  what  fine  name  soever 
You  call  it,  what  is  this  but  your  desire 
Unto  my  place? 

Lois.  Is  it  possible  you  read 

So  ill  the  book  of  fate  ? 

Adela.  Even  so  I  read  it. 

Lois.   Some  things  are  locked  away  from  hu 
man  hope ; 

Some  things  too  distant  are  even  for  desire. 
Look  at  me  !    I  am  one  who  stands  aloof. 


THE   THUNDERSTORM   45 

If  I  have  strength,  ah,  take  it !  courage,  use  it ! 
Give  him  his  own  !    If  I  was  born  to  love, 
With  a  heart  big  for  life  and  death  and  sorrow, 
Learn  of  me,  be  what  I  shall  never  be ! 
You  who  have  lived,  fed  upon  joy  and  pain, 
Know  you  the  agony  of  us  who  starve, 
Unrecognized  by  the  strange  eyes  of  God  ? 
Here,  like  the  ruined  wreckage  on  the  shore, 
I  watch  the  mighty  ocean  bearing  out 
Its  fleets  into  the  storm.    I  see  the  ship 
Steered  to  the  rocks  —  the  ship  my  soul  would 

sail, 

And  all  my  futile  valor  rots  away 
Into  the  waste  of  life. 

Adela.  It  is  your  choice. 

Marry  the  man  who  wants  you  —  leave  to  me 
My  own. 

Lois.       Enough  of  you  and  me  !    The  need, 
The  longing  and  the  dreams  that  meet  in  him 
Are  his  forever.    Happier  am  I, 
Lonely,  and  free  to  give  him  all,  than  he 
Who    blindly  wove    these   meshes   round    his 

soul. 

Speechless,  he  looks  at  me  with  haggard  eyes, 
And  every  joy  my  life  has  ever  known 
Runs  to  his  feet  in  tears.    All  that  I  am 


46    THE   THUNDERSTORM 

Is  his  —  or  yours  —  to  serve  him,  and  at  last 
It  will  avail. 

Adela.         Your  plight  puts  mine  to  shame. 
My  married  love  becomes  a  shabby  thing 
Beside  the  heroic  purple  of  your  passion. 
I  was  not  born  to  understand  his  ways, 
Dowered  with  your  exquisite  sympathy.  So  be  it ! 
But  yet  I  am  his  wife.    When  we  are  old 
We  two  will  smile  at  the  dim  thought  of  you 
And  make  a  tale  of  this. 

Lois.  Oh,  if  it  be 

A  tale  whose  end  is  joy,  I  shall  be  glad 
Even  in  my  solitude  of  life  or  death. 
If  you  will  take  my  task,  give  him  himself, 
Then  has  my  love  availed,  and  I  may  vanish 
Out  of  your  lives  forever.    Be  his  wife  — 
Is    it  not  enough?    Give  all,  and  more,  and 

more, 

As  the  warm  sun  gives  to  the  longing  earth. 
Then  will  you  make  a  summer  for  his  soul, 
And  he  will  rise  on  wings  into  the  light, 
And  I  shall  be  forgotten.   Adela, 
'T  is  my  last  word  to  you,  and,  if  you  will, 
'T  is  your  last  thought  of  me :  take  from  his 

life 
The  need  of  me. 


THE   THUNDERSTORM   47 

Adela.  I  cannot  —  oh,  I  cannot ! 

I  am  too  weak,  too  selfish,  too  afraid. 

(She  weeps.) 
Why  was  I  born  ? 

Lois.  Are  you  not  here  —  beside  him  ? 

You  must  be  strong  to  do  it. 

Adela.  I  have  failed. 

Better  if  I  could  give  it  up  and  die. 
The  past  is  never  over  —  nevermore 
May  I  begin  again. 

[John  Mather  appears  at  the  doorway. 
Adela  observes  him  and  runs  out,  still  pas 
sionately  weeping.  Lois  turns  and  sees 
him,  and  stands  in  silence,  while  he  ap 
proaches  and  bows  low. 
John.  So  —  it  is  said. 

Lois.    You    never   said    it,   though  —  thank 

you  for  that. 
John.    What  was  the  need  ?    Could  I  not  see 

you  knew  it  ? 
Lois.    I    knew  it  as   the    clover  knows   the 

bee. 
When  he  has  flown,  how  may  a  poor  flower 

know  ? 

John.    You  doubted  me  ? 
Lois.  I  doubted  my  own  joy. 


48    THE   THUNDERSTORM 

John.    'T  is  joy,  then  ?    And  I  feared  to  bring 

you  sorrow 
By  loving  you. 

Lois.  Sorrow  !    If  it  be  true 

There  is  no  longer  sorrow  in  the  world. 

John.    May  I  be  glad  then  ? 

Lois.  Listen  —  if  to-morrow 

This  wonder  that  you  tell  me  is  no  more  — 
For  it  must  end  — 

John.  As  ends  the  world  — 

Lois.  Remember  — 

You    need    not   grieve    for   me    nor  think  of 

me. 
This  hour  is  mine  forever. 

John.  Share  with  me  ! 

Is  it  not  ours  forever? 

Lois.  'T  is  as  though 

I  died  now  —  you  may  rightfully  forget. 

John.    And   put    you  in    the    grave.    How 

cheerfully 
You  bid  me  look  upon  the  dark  again ! 

Lois.     All  —  all  is  yours.     Remembering  or 

forgetting, 
What  difference  ?     If  I  touch  you  as  I  pass  — 

John.    With  plumy  wings  - 

Lois.  If  I  but  say  a  word, 


THE   THUNDERSTORM   49 

Surely  my  little  utmost  all  is  done, 
And  you  may  make  a  song  of  it. 

John.  It  makes 

My  life  a  song. 

Lois.  Good-by  now. 

John.  Is  it  this  — 

Your  word  ? 

Lois.     Two  words,  the  greatest  in  the  world, 
I  say  to  you  —  I  love  you,  and  farewell. 
Are  they  not  all  ? 

John.  Ah  no  —  for  there  are  deserts 

Where  you  and  I  would  be  a  world. 

Lois.  Ah  no ! 

Too  bright  the  sun  is  there  —  not  to  be  borne. 
It  would  suffice  too  much. 

John.  It  would  suffice. 

Lois.     It  would  consume.     If  you  were  born, 

perhaps, 
To  conquer,  not  escape  — 

John.  But  here  alone  — 

See,  do  you  find  me  conquering  ? 

Lois.  'Tis  done, 

Our  little  day,  for  greater  days  are  come. 

[She  opens  the  broad  screen-door. 
Look,  where  the  storm  fell  black,  now  rides  the 
moon. 


50    THE   THUNDERSTORM 

The  thick  rain  all  is  over  —  nothing  left 
But  the  rich  wetness  on  the  shining  leaves, 
And  all  to-morrow's  flowers.     I  do  not  fear 
To  leave  you. 

John.  But  I  fear. 

Lois.  Ah,  where  you  are 

My  life  is  —  will  you  make  me  live  in  vain  ? 
Come  —  to  my  heart ;  and  kiss  me  on  the  lips, 
My  love,  my  lover ! 

[They  embrace. 

John.  The  great  words  you  said 

I  say  them  too  —  I  love  you,  and  farewell. 
We  shall  outrun  desire  and  hope  at  last, 
And  find  each  other  somewhere  in  the  light, 
When  I  have  done  your   bidding.     'Tis  the 

hour  — 
Good-by. 

Lois.     The  east  grows  brave  for  me.    Good- 
by. 

[She  goes  out. 


AT   THE    GOAL 


At  the  Goal 


SCENE.  —  A  bedroom  exquisitely  furnished  with 
precious  old  furniture,  rugs,  and  hangings,  and 
softly  lit  by  a  night  lamp,  and  a  wood-fire 
burning  on  the  broad  hearth.  A  sick  MAN, 
about  fifty-five  years  old,  lies  in  bed  motionless, 
half  comatose.  A  WOMAN  of  fifty,  dressed  as 
a  nurse  in  a  blue  and  white  striped  gown, 
with  broad  white  collar  and  long  apron,  sits 
looking  in  the  fire.  She  rises  as  her  patient 
stirs,  and  notes  the  change  which  comes  over 
him.  He  opens  his  eyes,  breathes  less  heavily, 
and  tries  to  lift  himself  a  little. 


man.  Turn  up  the  lamp.    That  firelight 

flickers  so, 
And  shadows  clutch  at  me.    For  hours  and 

hours 

I  have  been  flying  —  out  under  the  moon  ; 
And  in  my  arms  asleep  were  many  children, 
The  sons  and  daughters  I  have  never  known. 


54  AT   THE   GOAL 

It's  queer  —  that  billowy  motion  of  the  air  — 
I  almost  sang  against  it  in  my  joy 
To  hold  my  sons  at  last.    But  then  I  fell  — 
Fell  back  to  this.    Why  did  I  hear  out  there 
A  voice  I  have  not  thought  of  all  these  years, 
And  see  a  face  floating  beyond  the  world  ? 

The  woman.  The  time  has  come. 

'The  man.  Why  do  I  talk  so  much  ? 

"  Close-mouthed  as  Drake,"  they  say  of  me, 

but  now 
Some  busy  little  devil  wags  my  tongue. 

The  woman.  The  silent  years  are  speaking. 

The  man.  She  was  pretty  — 

That  country  girl.    I  kissed  her  by  the  pool 
Down  in  the  woods.    I  was  a  country  boy  — 
A  baby  !    And  I  vowed  to  go  to  town 
And  work  for  her,  and  come  and  marry  her, 
And  all  the  usual  thing. 

The  woman.  And  she  believed. 

The  man.  What  raptures  we  get  over !     Do 

you  know 
What  it  is  to  come  to  town  ? 

The  woman.  Do  I  not  know? 

The  man.  Those  black  blows  of  the  city  on 

one's  heart, 
Red-hot  between  them  and  the  fire.    The  shock 


ATTHEGOAL  55 

And  agony  and  fright  of  it !    I  felt 
Everything  change.    I  died  and  was  reborn 
Harder,  more  keen.    The  pitiless  battering 
New-shaped  me,  and  I  took  the  shape  and  gave 
Thanks  for  the  blows  that  struck  a  weapon  out 
Fit  for  great  wars. 

The  woman.       And  who  should  feel  its  edge 
Sooner  than  she  ? 

'The  man.  She  ?  —  oh,  that  little  past 

Where  she  was  faded,  dwindled,  blew  away. 

The  woman.  You  never  took  the  trouble  to 
strike  her  dead. 

The  man.  What  man  could  think  of  woman 

when  the  roar 

Called  him  to  battle  ?    Inch  by  inch  I  crept ; 
Yes,  rank  by  rank  I  passed  them,  while  the  field 
Grew  large  around  me.    Men  are  fighters  yet : 
In  banks  and  shops  and  inner  offices 
We  wage  the  modern  war. 

The  woman.  And  women  still 

Think  you  are  lovers. 

The  man.  Love  is  made  for  those 

Who  can  get  nothing  else. 

The  woman.  Who  ask  naught  else. 

The  man.     Love !  can  love  give  to  me  the 
big  round  world 


56  AT  THE   GOAL 

To  play  ball  with  ?   What  lover's  madness  ever 
Can  match  that  thrill  that  gathers  in  the  brain 
And  tingles  in  these  aching  finger-tips 
As  one  by  one  the  mighty  men  go  down 
And  take  their  orders  ?    Have  you  ever  heard 
The  little  fools  who  live  because  we  let  them 
Talk  of  the  vanity  of  power  ? 

'The  woman.  I  prove 

Daily  the  vanity  of  all  things. 

'The  man.  Bosh ! 

Then  you  have  never  lived. 

The  woman.  Millions  like  me 

Have  never  lived  because  just  one  like  you 
Must  play  ball  with  the  world. 

The  man.  Who  moves  the  world, 

The  million  or  the  one  ?    Is  it  my  strength, 
My  single  strength  —  good  God  !    The  time  is 

with  me, 

Whispering,  pushing,  arming  me  —  a  spirit 
That  will  not  be  denied.    What  have  I  done  ? 
Wrecked   and  remade,  torn   down    and    built 

again 

After  the  brave  new  plan.  Let  them  beware 
Who  stand  against  me,  let  them  rot  in  sloth 
Who  do  not  help  me !  I  have  heard  the 

voice  — 
I  care  not  for  their  railing. 


AT  T  H  E   G  o  AL  57 

The  woman.  Heard  the  voice  ; 

And  won  intolerable,  unutterable 
Wealth  by  its  bidding. 

The  man.  Won    the   good    hard 

money  — 

Powder  and  shot  and  rations,  and  the  zeal 
Of  the  embattled  armies.     Money  first, 

And  then  the  rest  for  him  who  dares. 

» 

The  woman.  No  matter 

What  wreckage  and  what  cries. 

The  man.  No  matter  —  no  ! 

A  redness  at  the  dawn,  a  richer  soil 
For  the  new  harvest. 

The  woman.  'T  is  no  matter  then 

Who  falls. 

The  man.    Who  are  you  to  dispute  with  me, 
As  though  my  youth  stood  here  again,  with  all 
Unanswerable  follies  in  his  eyes  ? 
Turn  to  the  light  —  you  with  your  stripes  and 

apron, 

You  nurse  or  prophetess.     There  is  a  mist 
That  hides  you,  yet  —  Come  closer,  give  me 

room. 
Who  are  you  ? 

The  woman.     One  who  never  lived. 

The  man.  You  are  — 


58  AT    T  H  E     G  O  AL 

'The  woman.  I  am  your  past. 

The  man.  And  you  are  here. 

The  woman.  I  bring 

The  lost  things. 

The  man.  Let  them  go  ! 

The  woman.  They  burden  me. 

I  give  them  back  to  you. 

The  man.  Intolerable ! 

The  woman.   Withered  and  shrunken,  would 

you  know  them  now  — 
The  lyric  joy,  the  love,  the  modesty, 
The    faith ;    the    beauty    of   the    blossoming 

world  — 
All  June,  all  sunshine  ?   Would  you  know  them 

now  — 
The  burden  I  have  carried  all  these  years  ? 

The  man.    How  came  you  here  ? 

The  woman.  I  have  been  very  patient, 

Because  I  knew  that  we  should  meet  again. 

The  man.  You  knew. 

The  woman.          Fate  has  denied  me  other 

things, 
But  never  that. 

The  man.  I  think  I  must  be  dying. 

I   must   have    tramped    the   whole    big   track 
around 


ATTHEGOAL  59 

To  find  you  standing  like  a  column  there, 
Just  where  I  started  from. 

The  woman.  Yes  —  you  must  die. 

The  man.    To-night  ? 

The  woman.  Before  the  dawn. 

The  man.  And  all  is  done  — 

You  have  fought  for  me  ? 

The  woman.     We  fought  and  we  are  beaten. 
A  little  vivid  hour  is  yours  to  think  in  — 
Then  all  is  done. 

The  man.    Death.    Now.    Lord,  what  a  mess 

they  '11  make  of  it, 
Davis  and  Chalmers !    Call  them  ! 

The  woman.  They  are  gone. 

The  man.     Damn   them !    Could    they   not 

watch  with  me  an  hour  ? 
Write  then. 

The  woman  (taking  paper  and  pencil).    Go  on. 

The  man.  Tell  them  to  wait,  keep  cool. 

Tell  them  to  let  Wisconsin  fall  to  nothing, 
And  get  control  of  it ;  for  we  must  have  it 
To  strengthen  C.  and   O.    Tell  them  —  you 
hear  me  ?  — 

The  woman.    I  follow  you. 

The  man.  And  in  that  copper  deal 

They  must  be  smooth  and  secret,  soft  as  death, 


60  ATTHEGOAL 

And  let  that  fresh  young  fool    keep   up    the 

game 

With  his  dead  father's  millions.     Blusterer  ! 
He  '11  find  himself  entangled  in  my  nets. 
Then  they  can  draw  him  in  without  a  noise  — 
Him  and  his  properties. 

^he  woman.  Can  draw  him  in  — 

"The  man.     Tell  them  to  draw  the  world  in, 

for  this  age 

Is  bigger  than  the  world,  and  men  are  born 
Who  shall  own  kings  —  yea,  give  them  peace 

or  war, 

And  make  the  aging  earth  anew.     Alas  ! 
Have  I  been  bold,  and  wasted  not,  nor  spared, 
Stopping  at  nothing,  heaping  stone  on  stone 
To  build  a  great  colossus,  only  to  leave  it 
Undone    and   insecure  ?     Tell    them  —  good 

Lord! 

They  cannot  do  it.    What 's  the  use  of  them 
When  I  am  gone?    Cold  wheels  without  the 

fire 
To  move  them.    Do  not  write.    Give  me  the 

paper. 

[He  tears  it  to  pieces. 

What  incoherent  fragments  death  will  make 
Of  all  my  plans  ! 


AT  TH  E   GOAL  61 

woman.      And  none  will  know  nor  care. 
'The  man.     The   imbecile,   satiric,  thankless 

world 
Will  go  its  way  without  me. 

The  woman.  And  forget  you. 

The  man.    It   shall    not.     On    the   gates  of 

hospitals 

My  name  is  carved  in  stone.    Millions  of  mine 
Shall  build  a  mighty  palace  of  the  arts. 
Where  I  walked  flowers  will  grow. 

The  woman.  The  people's  treasure  — 

The   spoil    of  purchased   laws   and    managed 

markets, 
Restored  a  little  after  many  years. 

The  man.    Bah  !    Have  you  naught  to  say  of 

states  enriched, 

Deserts  made  habitable,  men  employed  ? 
Open  your  eyes  —  one  mind,  even  to-day, 
May  find  a  world  and  give  it  to  the  race ; 
And  such  as  you  would  stop  the  work  with 

scruples  — 
Cobwebs  no  brave  man  sees. 

The  woman.  And  such  as  I 

Would  bid  the  brave  man  cast  away  the  world 
And  save  his  soul. 

The  man.          His  soul  must  take  its  chance. 


62  ATTHF,GOAL 

The  woman.    Be  honest,  then.    Give  it  the 

truth  to  carry 

Up  to  the  throne  of  God.    Stand  by  your  life, 
And  drop  the  hospitals  and  galleries  — 
The  lies. 

The  man.    The  playthings.    I  who  work  with 

fate 

Must  have  immortals  for  my  playfellows. 
I  love  these  lovely  things.    I  make  them  mine. 
I  rest  in  them. 

The  woman.     Yours  !  yours  to  take  and  give ! 
They  were  not,   are  not  yours  —  that   is  the 
lie. 

The  man.    The  lie — the  truth!    An  evenly 

balanced  world 
You  make  of  it.    The  truth  —  the  lie  ! 

The  woman.  Well? 

The  man.  Well  — 

There  is  no  absolute  —  not  here. 

The  woman  (looking  about).  Not  here. 

The  man.   The  truth,  the   pure   uncompro 
mising  truth  — 
What  man  would  know  it  ? 

The  woman.  Not  another  hour 

Is  given  to  you  to  turn  and  face  the  truth, 
Blinding,  destroying. 


AT    T  H  E     G  O  AL  63 

The  man.  Not  another  hour  — 

It  is  too  short. 

The  woman.     It  is  enough. 

The  man.  Perhaps 

If  I  had  married  you  —  there  in  my  youth, 
We  should  have  tried  to  face  it. 

The  woman.  Can  you  feel 

That  other  life  ? 

The  man.    We  might  have  done  great  things. 

The  woman.    Together  —  for  the  world. 

The  man.  If  you  had  loved  me, 

It  might  have  been. 

The  woman.  If  I  had  loved  ! 

The  man.  The  truth!  — 

This  is  revenge,  not  love. 

The  woman.  If  I  had  loved  — 

The  man.    As  woman   must  who    saves  her 

world  —  the  love 
Unspeakable,  enduring. 

The  woman.  I  have  sorrowed. 

The  man.    Wept  for  the  renegade,  perhaps. 

My  name, 

Looming  so  large  of  late,  has  made  you  dream 
Down  in  your  quiet  place.    But  now  to-night 
You  face  me  with  an  eye  as  free  as  mine. 
The  glamour  all  has  faded.    You  are  glad. 


64  AT   THE   GOAL 

The  woman.  You  blind  and  buffet  me.    I  do 
not  know. 

The  man.  Time  —  time  is  given  you.    I  who 

sweat  and  pant 
Wave  but  a  dusty  banner  as  I  pass  — 

The  woman.  Into  the  distance. 

The  man.  When  the  long  dark  ride 

Is  over,  shall  I  find  you  at  the  goal 
Again  ? 

The  woman.   I  have  not  loved  —  I  do  not 
know. 

The  man.  Wait  —  I  shall  look  for  you. 

The  woman.  We  are  two  braggarts  — 

Two  miserable  creatures  who  have  failed. 

The  man.  Then  here  's  to  better  luck  on  the 

next  course  ! 
Shall  I  go  on  ? 

The  woman.     Is  there  no  more  ? 

The  man.  Where  is  she  ? 

The  woman.  She  waits  my  summons  —  't  is 
the  modern  way. 

The  man.  She  fears  ? 

The  woman.  She  weeps  and  trembles. 

The  man.  Do  not  call  her. 

The  exquisite,  soft,  feminine,  brilliant  thing  — 
She  is  for  life,  not  death. 


ATTHEGOAL  65 

'The  woman.  And  I  for  death. 

'The  man.  Take  heart.    You  who  have  seen 

so  many  die  — 
Live  now. 

The  woman.  I  who  have  seen  so  many  die 
For  the  first  time  see  death. 

The  man.  Like  a  great  river 

It  washes  over  me. 

The  woman.  Hold  fast. 

The  man.  So  —  So  — 

Give  me  your  hand.    Now  I  can  wait  a  little. 
See  —  do  you  smell  the  clover? 

The  woman.  It  is  over  — 

The  little  vivid  hour. 

The  man.  So  cool  and  sweet ! 

Come  to  the  fields  —  [He  dies. 

The  woman.  I  cannot !  oh,  I  cannot ! 

[The  woman  throws  herself  on  her  knees 
beside  the  couch,  her  arms  stretched  over 
the  form  of  the  man.  After  a  time  she 
slowly  rises ;  closes  the  eyes,  disposes  the 
arms i  smooths  sheets  and  pillows,  and  after 
a  close  long  look  in  the  face  passes  out. 


AFTER  ALL 


After  All 


SCENE.  —  A  pathway  in  hell.  On  the  right  snow 
drifts,  on  the  left  the  lake  of  fire.  A  few 
spirits  are  half  visible. 

Chorus  of  Spirits. 

See  them  coming  — 

Flakes  that  drift, 
Ashen  mists 

That  shift  and  lift. 
Shaken  off, 

Ghosts  of  pain, 
Down  from  earth 

They  fall  like  rain. 

Room  for  the  lost !  — 
There  's  room  in  hell. 

Damned  and  tossed 
With  curse  and  knell, 

Spewed  from  earth, 
Refused  in  heaven, 


70  AFTERALL 

Hail  to  the  lost, 

By  torments  driven ! 

Lo !  who  cometh  ?  — 

Wise  was  he. 
The  last  fine  secret 

He  would  see. 
Alone,  aloof 

From  life  and  care, 
He  spun  his  cobwebs 

In  the  air. 

Hush  and  wonder  ! 

One  hath  risen 
To  greet  this  wisp, 

So  blanched  and  wizen  : 
She  who  tore 

Her  soul  in  two, 
Who  dared  the  utmost 

Life  may  do. 

\jThe  spirits  of  a  man  and  a  woman  meet. 
She.    Ah — you! 
He.  Yea,  I. 

She.  How  did  you  come  ? 

He.    I  slipped  like  sleet  adown  the  wind. 
She.   You  from  your  heights. 


AFTER  ALL  71 

He.  The  dry  years  thinned 

My  soul.     It  grew  too  cold  and  numb 
For  earth. 

She.          So  high  and  still  you  were 
I  used  to  think  you  need  not  stir 
To  enter  paradise. 

He.  And  now 

The  dry  snow  sifts  me,  and  my  brow 
Chills  the  dark  wind. 

She.  And  I  in  flame 

Bathe  my  hot  wounds  away. 

He.  At  last 

We  who  have  lost  may  know  the  game. 

She.    Yea,  we  who  missed  the  fateful  cast, 
Faltering  when  the  angel  passed, 
May  count  his  footsteps  one  by  one 
Down  to  our  earth,  back  to  his  sun. 

He.    And  we  who  never  spake  before 
May  utter  pallid  words. 

She.  And  we 

Whose  wind-drawn  senses  feel  no  more, 
May  tell  the  ruinous  heart-throbs  o'er 
That  beat  us  down  this  bitter  path. 

He.  We  —  pale  inheritors  of  wrath, 
Who  might  be  treading,  hand  in  hand, 
Spaces  afoam  with  wings. 


72  AFTER  ALL 

She.  If  you, 

That  day  when  God  was  with  us  two, 
Had  given  me  the  supreme  command. 

He.    If  you  had  stood  less  proudly  there 
Against  the  sun,  had  seemed  aware 
Of  the  desire  that  did  not  dare. 
She.    I  who  dared  all ! 
He.  If  the  red  lips, 

That  smiled,  had  trembled  once.     If  even 
One  quiver  of  the  finger-tips 
Had  proved  you  woman  — 

She.  If  like  a  man 

You  had  torn  the  veil  — 

He.  We  blurred  God's  plan 

Rust  on  the  shining  rim  of  heaven. 
Chorus  of  Spirits. 

Come  and  see  them 

Cringe  and  cower  — 
Fools  who  missed 

The  perfect  hour! 
Dumb  and  blind, 

To  them  was  given 
Light,  love,  joy, 

A  glimpse  of  heaven. 
In  the  full  day 
They  lost  the  way. 


AFTERALL  73 

Spurn  them,  laugh  at  them  — 
Saints  astray! 

She.    I  saw  the  open  gates  that  morning, 
Heard  seraph  songs. 

He.  I  felt  the  warning  — 

From  heaven  to  hell  measured  the  fall. 

She.    We  looked  in  the  archangel's  eyes 
And  dared  not  follow. 

He.  We  are  here. 

She.    How  swiftly  fell  that  black  surprise ! 
I  saw  you  not,  and  over  all 
A  thick  doubt  grew,  a  foggy  fear. 

He.    I  turned  and  made  me  over-wise 
With  learning,  called  the  loss  of  you 
By  the  fond  name  of  sacrifice  ; 
And  in  my  solitudes  again 
Dreamed  I  might  find  the  truth  for  men. 

She.    And     I     wandered     the    dark    world 

through, 

Driven  by  that  reckless  need  of  love 
Which  maddens  women. 

He.  While  above 

All  need  I  urged  my  flattered  soul. 

She.  \  drank  the  cup  of  drunkenness, 
And  lo,  it  cursed  that  could  not  bless  — 
Another  woman's  joy  I  stole. 


74 


AFTER  ALL 


He.  Yea,  when  the  uproar  came  to  me, 
I  marveled  that  such  fire  could  be 
In  one  who  seemed  so  cold. 

She.  You  lit 

The  fire. 

He.        If  I  had  nourished  it, 
Out  of  my  cold  philosophy 
It  would  have  driven  the  chill. 

She.  Ah  me ! 

Then  the  great  fame  you  made  — 

He.  Will  die. 

My  truth  was  but  another  lie. 
I  had  not  lived,  I  could  not  know. 

She.    My  bliss  was  but  another  woe. 
Strained  to  my  heart  it  turned  to  stone; 
And  when  God  bade  me  let  it  go 
I  would  not,  though  it  dragged  me  prone 
Down  to  these  fires  that  melt  it  not 
Where  on  my  breast  heavy  and  hot 
It  lies. 

He.     Hush !  do  you  hear  the  cries 
Hurled  from  the  wrath  that  never  dies  ? 

Chorus  of  Spirits. 

In  winds  of  fire  and  sleet 

Whirl  on  forever! 
Never  to  part  nor  meet, 
Forgetting  never. 


AFTE  R  A LL  75 

When  the  great  ghosts  wheel  down 

Cringe  ye  and  cower ! 
Who  chose  the  fiery  crown 
Shall  wield  the  power. 
Make  way  !  make  way !  — 
Intruders  gray ! 
Slip  through  the  drear  shades 
As  ye  may ! 
Flee  in  fear ! 
Come  not  near  ! 
Slaves  !  eternally 
Shift  and  veer  ! 

He.   Warped  and  twisted  and  bent  are  we  — 
Dried  hopes  blown  down  the  vales  of  pain. 
She.    Hush !    do  you    hear  that  sound  like 

rain 

Of  falling  souls  ?    Look,  do  you  see  ? 
He.   And  one  with  lightning  armed  ? 
She.  Ah  me ! 

I  know  him,  he  has  passed  me  by. 

He.    Flee  from  the  whirlwind !    Dive  and 

fly! 
She.    Down !  down !    I  hear  you  not.    The 

gale 
Blackens  around  me. 

He.  Lo,  I  fail  ! 


76  AFTERALL 

Chorus  of  Spirits  (approaching). 
Somewhere  or  other 

The  mad  world  is  spinning. 
Our  game  now  another 

Gay  crowd  is  beginning. 
Ha,  ha !  they  will  botch  it, 

For  God  has  control. 
We  nip  it  and  notch  it  — 

He  plays  for  the  whole. 

He  rumbled  and  grumbled  — 

We  would  not  give  ear. 
Our  power  he  has  humbled 

By  pitching  us  here. 
Since  heaven  is  not  for  us 

And  earth  's  but  a  fool  — 
Since  either  would  bore  us 

In  hell  let  us  rule ! 


A    MODERN    MINUET 


A 

Modern  Minuet 


SCENE.  —  A  small  room  opening  into  a  dancing  hall 
in  a  modern  town  house,  where  a  costume 
party  is  going  on.  'The  room  is  furnished  in 
eighteenth  century  style  >  and  a  young  man  and 
woman,  dressed  in  costumes  of  Queen  Annes 
time,  are  discovered  alone.  'The  music  of  a 
dance  is  dimly  heard. 

Althea.  Ah  no,  I  cannot  hear,  how  dare  you 

tell 
Your  tale  in  prose,  my  lord  ? 

Roderick.  Is  it  not  well 

To  speak  the  truth,  even  though  a  maid  be  fair 
And  royally  appareled? 

Althea.  Look,  we  wear 

The  Addisonian  livery.    Let  our  speech 
Ripple  with  rhymes  and  flatteries,  I  beseech. 
Why  have  we  slipped  the  iron  leash  of  time, 


80     A   MODERN   MINUET 

Escaped  out  of  the  real,  save  to  climb 

The  trimmed  and  velvet  slopes  where  maids 

and  men 
May  play  at  passion  ? 

Roderick.  Let  me  pledge  you  then 

A  flowery  love.    A  garden  is  my  heart, 
Planted  with  rose  trees  set  with  formal  art 
Between  green  hedges.    There  you  come  like 

spring, 
Bidding  me  bloom  while  all  the  sweet  birds  sing. 

Althea.    And  the  red  rose  half  open  in  its 

bud  — 
Is  that  for  me  ? 

Roderick.  Take  my  life's  richest  blood, 

Crimson,  deep-scented. 

Althea.  Lo,  the  white  one  there  ! 

Roderick.  'Tis   my   new   hope  greeting  the 

sunny  air. 

Breathe  gently,  lest  thou  sweep  its  petals  frail 
Down  the  chill  wind. 

Althea.  May  a  chill  wind  prevail 

In  your  fair  garden  ? 

Roderick.  Fickle  is  the  May, 

Proud,  merciless.    Look  —  if  she  smiles  to-day 
To-morrow  come  the  darkness  and  the  storm. 

Althea.  To-morrow  is  not,  never  is.    When 
warm 


A   MODERN    MINUET    81 

Shines  the  sweet  sun  through  the  soft  sifted  air 
Who  counts  the  thunders  ? 

Roderick.  When  the  sun  shines  fair 

He  who  stands  tiptoe  on  the  peak  of  rapture 
Thrills  with  sharp  pain  because  no  dream  can 

capture 
Another  moment  so  divine. 

Althea.  Which  proves 

How  foolish  'tis  to  think.    The  soul  that  loves 
Tears  the  pale  web  of  thought,  the  theories 
Whose  thick  and  twisted  wisdom  once  was  his 
Before  the  light  burst  in. 

Roderick.  The  loving  soul 

Fashions  a  doubt  out  of  each  dream's  control, 
An  agony  out  of  each  bliss  denied. 

Althea.  But  who  can  gauge  a  bliss  till  it  be 

tried, 

Or  of  the  most  adventurous  dream  beware 
Till  he  has  leashed  it  winging  in  mid-air  ? 

Roderick.    Such   reckless  valor  ne'er  moved 

mortal  man 

As  mine  were  if  I  dared  the  space  to  span 
'Twixt  me  and  my  desire. 

Althea.  When  man  dares  not 

The  gods  blot  out  a  planet  from  the  spot 
Where  it  should  wheel  around  some  star's  bright 
seat. 


82     A   MODERN   MINUET 

Roderick.  Ah  give  me  then  the  universe  com 
plete  ! 

\He  falls  on  one  knee  and  kisses  her  hand. 
Althea.    Nay,    nay  —  beware !    Your   lady's 

finger-tip 

Takes  not  the  homage  of  the  eye  and  lip. 
Roderick.   Set    me   some    task !    The  sword 

rusts  at  my  side. 

Bid  me  through  dark  wars  cleave  a  pathway  wide. 
Althea.  Life  is  but  war — the  field  awaits  the 

brave. 

Rise  and  go  forth  to  conquer  and  to  save. 
Roderick.  But  ere  I  rise  —  a  gauge !  —  lest  I 

return 
Spent,  wounded,  and  you  know  me  not,  and 

spurn 

The  world-worn  warrior  from  your  palace  gate. 

[She  unclasps  and  hands  him  a  bracelet. 

Althea.  Take  then  this  bauble.    On  my  pulse 

it  sate 

Counting  the  heartbeats.    Lo,  I  wait  unfriended 
Till  the  brave  fight  be  won,  the  trial  ended. 
Roderick  (rising).    And  if  a  century  or  two 

should  fling 

Their  spell  about  us  ere  once  more  I  bring 
This  token  to  your  feet,  if  the  bold  world 


A   MODER^   MINUET     83 

Should  down   the  zones  of  change   be  madly 

whirled 

Into  a  dumb  and  unromantic  day, 
Then  should  I  find  my  lady  waiting?  —  say! 
Plain  words  upon  her  lips,  her  gown  unquilted, 
Her  hair  of  nature's  gold,  her  manners  wilted 
Into  a  democrat  simplicity  — 
Then  would  she  know  me,  though  my  garments 

be 

No  longer  silken,  though  my  head  emerge 
Out  of  this  snowy  coil  —  yea,  though  I  urge 
An  homely  suit  and  pledge  a  workman's  hand, 
Without  the  sword  in 't  ?  Would  she  understand 
Though  all  else  change,  my  heart  is  hers  for 
ever  ? 
Althea.  Ah,  if  time  plods  through  centuries 

when  we  sever 

'T  is  but  his  custom,  for  whene'er  we  meet, 
After  long  ages  lost  and  incomplete, 
The  world  seems  made  anew. 

Roderick.  Let  it  be  ours  — 

That  glad  new  world,  its  rush  of  glowing  hours ! 
There  let  us  laugh  at  time  and  all  the  slaves 
Who  creep   through  sunless   paths   into   dark 

graves 
Blind,  unaware  of  love.   Sweet,  do  you  love  me? 


84     A   MODERN   MINUET 

Althea.  Hush !  —  by  the  stars  that  speak  the 

truth  above  me, 

How  dare  you  strain  our  airy  rhymes  and   lies 
With  that  great  word  ? 

Roderick.  Tell  me  then  with  your  eyes, 

Truer  than  stars.    In  any  way  you  please 
Tell  me  you  love  me.    Tell  me,  or  I  seize 
From  your  shut  lips  the  pledge. 

Althea.  Would  you  not  scorn 

A  patched  and  powdered  promise  ? 

Roderick.  Hearts  are  sworn 

In  every  livery,  and  the  pledges  spoken 
Under  a  mask  are  not  more  lightly  broken 
Than  plain  vows  clad  in  rags. 

Althea.  Ah,  give  me  time  — 

A  century  or  two  whose  rush  sublime 
Shall  blast  this  florid  world  and  make  a  new  one. 
Better  for  simple  souls  to  work  and  woo  on, 
Before  the  sun  climbs  out  of  yonder  lake. 

Roderick.  A  century  or  two  for  your  sweet 

sake 

Is  but  an  hour.    Devoutly  will  I  wait, 
Your  knight  kneeling  till  dawn  in  lonely  state, 
Ere  from  his  love  he  hears  the  high  command 
That  puts  his  valor  to  the  proof. 

Althea.  The  band 


A   MODERN   MINUET       85 

Ripples  a  minuet.    Before  that  change  — 
That  leap  of  time  out  of  this  narrow  range, 
That  sudden  sun-burst  o'er  a  world  awake  — 
Shall  we  not  tread  a  lordly  measure,  take 
A  proud  farewell  of  the  dear  vanities  P 

Roderick.  For  that  or  any  walk  in  life  you 

please, 
My  hand  is  yours. 

Althea.  Come!  with  your  hand  in  mine, 

No  road  too  rough  is  and  no  stage  too  fine. 

[They  make  the  minuet  bow  and  courtesy,  and 
go  out  hand  in  hand,  taking  the  minuet 
step  in  time  to  the  music. 


IT    PASSES    BY 


PERSONS   OF  THE   PLAT. 

DR.  MERRILL. 
RICHARD  BLAKE. 
HAROLD  HUMPHREY. 

ISABEL  EVERETT. 
ELLEN  RATHBOURNE. 
KATE  DOANE. 
IDA  DOANE. 
PHCEBE  EVERETT. 


It  Passes  By 


SCENE.  —  Front  drawing-room  of  a  town  house 
facing  a  broad  avenue ;  a  beautiful  and  home 
like  room,  full  of  color,  furnished  with  taste 
and  elegance  but  without  great  richness. 
Hexagonal  trifle  window  at  rear  of  stage 
gives  to  the  street.  Fireplace  with  low  fire 
at  right ;  at  left,  double  doorway  from  the 
hall,  with  doors  rolled  away  and  -portieres 
drawn  back.  Partly  visible  through  it,  at 
the  end  of  the  hall  outside,  is  the  front  door, 
giving  also  to  the  street  down  a  flight  of 
steps.  One  or  two  elms  are  visible  through 
the  windows,  their  leaves  browning  and  fall 
ing  under  the  warm  October  sunshine ;  be 
yond  them,  across  the  street,  the  dim  row  of 
houses. 

A  little  girl  of  five  or  six  has  thrown 
her  doll  face   downward  on  a  chair,  and 


90  IT   PASSES   BY 

stands  at  the  window  looking  out.  A  hand 
some  woman  of  about  thirty-five,  her  mother, 
enters  from  the  hall 

Phoebe.    What  are  they  doing,  mother? 
Isabel  (without  noting).  I  don't  know. 

Phoebe.    But  look  —  so  many  people  — 
Isabel  (searching  the   tables  for   something). 

Never  mind. 
Come  here,  and  help  me. 

Phoebe.  Won't  they  go  away  ? 

Isabel.    I  think  so,  dear.     Where  can  it  be  ? 

He  had  it  — 
Phoebe.    There 's  a  policeman.     Is  a  circus 

coming  ? 

Isabel.    What  are  you  saying? 
Phoebe   (running  across  and  dragging  at  her 
mother  s  skirts).    May  I  stay  and  see  it  ? 
Look,  mother,  may  I  ? 

Isabel  (following  to  the    window).    What  a 

crowd,  my  robin ! 
All  down   the    street  —  no   end  to   them  —  I 

wonder 
Why  they  are  here. 

Phoebe.  Is  it  a  circus  then  ? 

And  will  there  be  gold  chariots  ? 


IT   PASS  ES   B  Y  91 

Isabel  (sitting  and  lifting  the  child  to  her  knee). 

Little  one, 
Mother  knows  nothing,  nothing  any  more  — 

Phoebe.    But  why  ? 

Isabel.    All    day   and  night,  two  days   and 

nights, 
Father  has  suffered  so  ! 

Phcebe.  Why  don't  you  whisper  ? 

Isabel.   My  darling  must  be  still  again  to-day, 
Still  as  a  baby  birdling  in  its  shell. 
And    by   and    by,    when    something    happens 

there, 

Out  in  the  street,  she  must  not  run  upstairs, 
Nor  call  to  mother  — 

Phcebe.  Must  I  stay  alone  ?  — 

Here  all  alone  ? 

Isabel.  Dolly  is  waiting  here. 

Dolly  will  play  with  you. 

Phcebe.  But  she  is  tir^d. 

Isabel.    And  all  the  people  and  the  horses 

there 
To  look  at  — 

Phcebe.  Who  will  tell  me  ? 

Isabel.  And  perhaps  — 

If  you  watch  quietly,  some  one  may  come. 

Phcebe.    Who? 


92  IT     PASS  ES     BY 

Isabel.    Let  me  think.    Perhaps  your  newest 

friend  — 
Your  Mr.  Blake. 

Phatbe.  Oh,  will  he  ? 

Isabel.  Or  perhaps  — 

Look   there !    some  one  is   coming.    Do  you 

see? 
Phcebe  (springing  out  of  her  mother  s  lap  and 

clapping  her  hands).    Miss  Ellen  ! 
Isabel.  Run  and  welcome  her  —  so  softly  — 
Still  as  a  sunbeam  — 

[The  child  runs  and  opens  the  door,  admit 
ting  Ellen  Rathbourne,  a  young  woman 
of  twenty-five  or  twenty-six,  who  catches 
her  up  in  her  arms. 
Ellen.  Darling ! 

Phoebe.  You  must  whisper  — • 

Father  is  ill. 

Ellen.  Isabel,  is  it  true  ? 

Isabel.    These  two  days. 
Ellen.  Oh,  what  is  it  ? 

Isabel.  Pain  —  pain. 

Ellen.   You  do  not  fear  ? 
Isabel.  No  —  no  !  —  but  it  is  hard 

To  see  a  strong  man  suffer. 

Ellen.  Go  to  him  — 


I  T   PASSES   BY  93 

Leave  her  with  me.    The  soldiers,  Phoebe  mine, 
Soon  we  shall  see  their  banners  down  the  street. 

Phoebe.    And  bands?  —  and  will  they  march  ? 

Isabel.  What  is  it  then  — 

This  crowd  ? 

Ellen.        The  governor  —  have  you  forgot  ? 
This  morning  the  procession  passes  here. 

Isabel.    I  had  forgotten  utterly. 

Ellen.  He  goes 

In  state  to  his  last  rest  —  his  first  and  last. 

Isabel.    He   had   his  foot  upon   the  White 

House  stair 
When  the  grave  opened. 

Ellen.  Do  you  think  in  heaven 

He  finds  the  fairest  mansion  half  so  fair? 

Isabel.    He  loved  the  fat  old  earth. 

Ellen.  I  saw  him  once  — 

Isabel.    I  felt  him  once  —  that  day  he  spoke 

for  Grant 

In  the  convention,  when  the  galleries 
Went  mad  with  cheers. 

Ellen.  And  now  how  suddenly  — 

Isabel.    The  ladder  breaks  with  him  ! 

Phoebe.  I  hear  a  drum. 

Ellen.    See  how  they  crowd !    The  yard,  the 
steps  — 


94  IT   PASSES   BY 

Phcebe.  Look,  mother ! 

I  hear  a  drum. 

Isabel.  Far,  far  away,  my  brown  one, 

What  do  you  see  ? 

Phcebe.  So  many  people  waiting. 

Isabel.    And  something  down  the  street? 

Phoebe.  It  shines  like  silver. 

Isabel.    Soldiers,  with  banners.    Watch  until 

it  grows 

Into  an  army.    Ellen,  have  you  heard  — 
Tell    me    before    I     leave    you  —  have    you 

heard 
Richard  is  here  again  ? 

Ellen.  Why  —  yes.    But  why 

The  shadow  in  your  voice,  my  Isabel  ? 
Do  you  imagine  that  his  name  can  still 
Set  my  least  nerve  a-tremble  ? 

Isabel.  Oh,  I  know, — 

Yet  somehow,  so  irrational  am  I, 
I  catch  myself  regretting  it  is  over. 

Ellen.    Well,  it  is  over. 

Isabel.  Years  of  sun  and  wind, 

Out  in  that  Arizona  wilderness, 
Have  stamped  him  like  a  monumental  rock 
With  ruggedness. 

Ellen.  I  laughed  at  his  white  hands ! 


I  T   PASS  ES  B  Y  95 

Isabel.    And  the  fierce  colors  of  those  arid 

wastes  — 

Those  deep,  eternal,  terrifying  colors. 
Stringing  the  earth  with  jewels  mountain-high  — 
He  makes  me  think  of  them. 

Ellen.  Colors  of  death  ! 

So  will  the  earth  harden  and  bake  at  last, 
When  we  are  gone  with  all  our  lives  and  loves. 
Why  will  you  talk  of  dead  things  ?    Do  those 

drums 
Muffle  your  thoughts  like  shrouds  ? 

Isabel.  Are  you  not  hard  ? 

Ellen.    You   married  women !    tell  me  why 

it  is 

That  everything  is  nothing  to  you.    Queer  ! 
A  man  may  jilt  a  woman,  throw  her  over 
For  any  base  entanglement,  and  then 
The  best  of  you  will  plead  for  him. 

Isabel.  Oh,  Ellen  — 

Do  you   dare  judge  by  deeds  ?    What  a  man 

does 

Is  accident  —  so  cramped  are  human  lives. 
Great    souls    go   blundering    on,    even    to  the 

heights, 

While  we  stand  shuddering  at  the  dismal  fields 
They  struggled  through  and  passed. 


96  IT   PASSES   BY 

Ellen.  He  would  not  send 

A  messenger  —  why  do  you  say  these  things  ? 

Isabel.    For  love  of  you. 

Ellen.  You  do  not  know  me  then. 

There  is  no  ember  of  that  old  fire  left. 
When  chance  brings  us  together  we  shall  meet 
Without  emotion. 

Isabel.  If  it  were  to-day? 

Ellen.    To-day,  to-morrow,    or   beyond  the 

last 
Of  all  the  morrows. 

Phoebe.  See  that  soldier  there, 

Riding  against  the  people  —  will  he  kill  them  ? 

Isabel.    I  hope  not  —  he  's  the  marshal  mak 
ing  room. 

Phcebe.    What  for? 

Ellen.  For  a  great  conqueror. 

Phcebe.  A  giant  ? 

Ellen.    Yes,  one  who  stalks  between  us  and 

the  sun 
With  little  winks  for  eyes  that  see  too  clear. 

Phoebe.    I  don't  like  giants. 

Ellen.  Even  when  they  are  kind  ? 

Phoebe.  See  Mr.  Humphrey  pushing  through 

the  crowd, 
And  Miss  Doane  —  see  them  ! 


I  T   PASS  ES   B  Y  97 

Ellen  (waving  and  smiling  out  of  the  window}. 
They  can  scarcely  move. 

Three  more  guests,  Isabel :  they  're  coming  in, 
Or  trying  to. 

Isabel.  Then  you  shall  play  the  hostess. 

To-day  I  cannot  see  them  —  I  must  go. 

Ellen.    Leave  all  to  me,  and  do  not  give  a 

thought 

Either  to  Phoebe,  or  the  invading  world. 
They  shall  be  mine  to-day. 

[Isabel  throws  her  arms  about  Ellen's  neck 
an  instant,  then  goes  out  at  left  and  runs 
upstairs. 

Phoebe.  But  will  he  come 

On  horseback  ? 

Ellen.  Patience,  darling.    Who  can  tell  ? 

The  marshal  cantered  by, 

The  great  drum-major  came  ; 
The  soldiers  too 
In  coats  of  blue, 
The  guns  with  hearts  of  flame. 

And  all  the  world  said  —  why  ? 
And  all  the  world  said  —  where  ? 

We  carry  just 

A  peck  of  dust 
Out  to  the  garden  there. 


98  IT   PASS  ES   B  Y 

Phcebe.    Say  it  again. 

Ellen.  Nay,  Phoebe,  nevermore. 

The  gilded  horseman  jumps, 
The  big  policeman  thumps, 
The  people  stand  like  stumps 

And  will  not  budge  them  — 
See,  they  are  coming  —  pushing  up  the  steps, 
And  you  and  I  must  give  them  the  best  place 
And  be  polite  as  princes.    Let  them  in, 
And  I  will  bring  the  chairs  — 

[Phoebe  runs  to  the  front  door  again  and  of  ens 
it,  admitting  Kate  and  Ida  Doane,  and 
Harold  Humphrey.  Ellen  brings  chairs 
to  the  windows,  humming  in  time  to  the 
drums. 

We  carry  just 
A  peck  of  dust 
Out  to  the  garden  there. 

Here  —  take  the  box. 
One  moment,  and  we  ring  the  curtain  up. 
Kate.    These  holidays  !  what  can  you  do  with 

them? 

I  meant  to  hide  from  this,  take  refuge  in 
Some  innocent  excitement  —  hemming  sheets, 
Playing  the  mandolin,  or  reading  through 
That  artless  tale  of  Mrs.  Ward's.    But  no  — 


IT   PASS  ES   B  Y  99 

This  youth  was  so  unutterably  bored 
By  one  day's  exile  from  the  daily  grind, 
He  vowed  to  spend  the  morning,  stay  to  lunch 
eon, 

And  otherwise  afflict  us.    It  was  then 
I  grasped  at  this  procession,  and  was  saved 
To  share  him  with  you. 

Harold.  She  can  tell  the  truth 

Weil  —  once  a  year  at  least     Of  course  you 

know 

How  shrewd  are  her  devices  to  conceal 
The  sweet  affection  that  she  cannot  choose 
But  give  me. 

Kate.  Whose  affection  ? 

Harold.  On  my  soul 

I  have  forgotten,  though  there  was  a  time 
When  pity  made  me  weep  to  think  of  it. 

Kate.    Your  only  tear,  and   may  she  never 
know? 

Ida.  They  will  talk  nonsense,  even  at  funerals. 
Phoebe  and  I  are  honest ;    we  are  here 
To  see  the  show.    We  shall  not  miss  a  flag. 

Phcebe.  But  no  one  tells  me. 

Ellen   (grandiloquently).    Now    the    beat   of 

drum 
Rhymes  with  the  tramp  of  armies.    Row  on  row 


ioo          IT   PASSES   BY 

The  gleaming  cohorts,  like  a  summer  sea, 
Roll  on  in  waves  that  sparkle  to  the  sun. 
Now  the  furled  flag,  the  sad  obsequious  dirge, 
The  muzzled  guns,  mighty  with  memories, 
Bear  to  its  port  a  life.    Look,  ere  't  is  gone. 
Interpret,  lest  it  glide  into  the  past 
Unheralded. 

\jThe  drums  are  fasting  the  house,  rolling  a 
slow  and  solemn  march  at  the  head  of  the 
procession.  Soon  they  grow  slowly  fainter. 

Kate.  A  prologue  to  this  play  ! 

Ellen.   A   prologue,    Harold   of    the   ready 

tongue. 

This  bark,  that  dims  beyond  our  narrow  verge, 
What  was  it  when  it  rode  the  swelling  seas 
And  took  the  gales  with  joy  ? 

Harold.  What  was  it  not  ? 

A  shifty  ship,  built  to  be  serviceable 
In  any  kind  of  traffic.    Once  a  coaster, 
That  hugged  the  shore  of  politics,  nor  dared 
Venture  beyond  three  fathoms  lest  it  sink. 
A  transport  then,  carrying  back  and  forth 
Opinions,  purposes,  adapted  to 
The  popular  demand,  and  sold  so  cheap 
No  man  need  care  if  they  were  worn  a  day 
And  thrown  away  the  next.    A  privateer, 


IT   PASSES   BY          101 

That  took  the  chance  of  war  to  make  a  show 
And  win  the  prize  of  glory.   Then,  grown  bold, 
A  slaver  next,  dealing  in  gangs  of  voters, 
Chained,  labeled  for  delivery  at  the  polls, 
Ready-made  freemen.    Last,  perhaps  a  pirate, 
Slashing  for  power,  be  the  flag  friend  or  foe, 
And  winning  it,  only  to  fall  at  last 
There  within  sight  of  golden  pinnacles  — 
The  city  of  his  dream. 

\In  speaking,  Harold  advances  from  the  win 
dow.    Ellen  follows. 

Ellen.  If  this  is  all 

Why  did  the  people  love  him  ? 

Harold.  Blank  the  people! 

Why  are  the  people  fools  ? 

Ellen.  If  this  is  all 

Why  do  we  bow  when  he  goes  by  to-day, 
And  feel  a  sudden  dimness  at  the  eyes 
To  see  death  beating  him  ? 

\_She  sinks  into  an  arm-chair  standing  with  its 
back  toward  the  hall  and  window. 

Harold.  I  cannot  tell. 

The  feminine  mind  should  never  roam  at  large 
To  shift  the  planets  from  their  courses. 

Ellen.  Yet 

Why  are  you  here  if  this  is  all  ? 


102          IT   PASSES   BY 

Harold.  Compulsion, 

And  a  deep  joy  in  dirges. 

Phcebe.  See  the  flag  ! 

Why  don't  they  let  it  wave  ? 

Harold  (returning  to  the  window).    Precisely 

—  why? 

Why  do  they  furl  it  up  in  crape,  I  wonder, 
When  you  and  I  would  rather  see  it  float  ? 
Phoebe.    Listen  !     (A  pause.)     It 's   solemn, 

is  n't  it  ? 

[Kate  suddenly   looks  frightened  and  nses 

from  the  window-seat,  signing  to  Ida  for 

silence.    She  takes  Harold  by  the  arm  and 

quietly  leads  him  to  front  of  stage.    Ellen 

remains  in  her  chair  >  her  head  in  her  hand 

—  dreaming. 

Kate.  Good  heavens  ! 

What  shall  we  do  ? 

Harold.  Don't  scare  a  man  to  death  J 

Do  about  what  ? 

Kate.  Did  n't  you  see  him  ? 

Harold.  Whom  ? 

Kate.    Why,  Richard  Blake. 

Harold.  What,  back  again  ? 

Kate.  .  Oh  yes  — 

Two  days  ago  —  but  coming  in  — 


IT   PASSES    BY          103 

Harold.  Why  not  ? 

Kate.    Have    you    forgotten    how    he    went 
away  ? 

Harold.    What  do  you  mean  ? 

Kate.  Oh,  give  away  your  brains 

If  you  can't  use  them  !    You  forget  already 
That  he  and  Ellen  Rathbourne  were  engaged 
Five  or  six  years  ago,  that  he  forsook  her 
For  some  low  creature,  and  when  that  was  over 
Fled  to  the  wilds  ? 

Harold.  Oh  yes,  I  do  remember. 

Kate.    Indeed!    Well  —  think  again.    What 
shall  we  do  ? 

Harold.    Do  nothing. 

Kate.  But  she  has  not  seen  him  since. 

He  will  come  in  —  she  should  be  spared  — 

Harold.  Oh,  pshaw  ! 

She  has  to  meet  him  sometime  —  why  not  now  ? 
Now  —  to  the  sound  of  dirges,  and  the  tramp 
Of  fate's  inexorable  armies  ?  — -  Hush  ! 
Now  is  the  time.    Don't  interfere  with  chance, 
Who  has  her  plans,  deeper  than  yours  or  mine. 
If  we  are  summoned  here  as  witnesses 
Be  grateful  in  all  humbleness. 

Kate.  I  own 

The  pride  of  sex.    If  she  should  pale  before  him, 


IO4         IT   PASSES   BY 

So  much  as  tremble,  all  the  woman  in  me 

Would  feel  defeated. 

Harold.  Put  her  to  the  test  — 

Else  there  's  no  triumph. 

Phoebe  (at  the  window).    There  's  the  doctor 
coming. 

I  '11  let  him  in. 

[She  runs  to  the  door. 
Harold.  Besides,  it  is  too  late. 

[Ellen  rises  from  her  revery,  throwing  her 
arms  up  wide  and  her  head  back ;  and 
turns  slowly  toward  the  door.  Kate  and 
Harold  turn  and  face  the  door.  Ida 
stands  quietly  at  the  window.  Enter  Dr. 
Merrill,  a  man  of  fifty,  and  Richard  Blake, 
about  thirty ',  of  powerful  athletic  build, 
his  fair  skin  bronzed  by  exposure.  Richard 
shows  the  least  possible  trace  of  emotion 
at  seeing  Ellen.  I'he  Doctor,  a  few  feet 
in  advance,  extends  his  hand  to  Ellen, 
who  greets  him  first  with  perfect  aplomb. 
No  one  seems  embarrassed.  Harold  and 
Kate  go  toward  the  hall  to  meet  Richard, 
as  he  stands,  hat  in  hand,  beside  the  por 
tiere.  The  drums  sound  faint  in  the  dis 
tance,  to  the  north  —  left. 


IT   PASSES   BY          105 

Ellen.    Good  morning.  Doctor.    Your  benig 
nant  smile 

Shines  on  the  just  and  unjust,  like  the  sun. 
You  bring  a  rover  with  you.    Mr.  Blake, 
You  and  the  sun  are  comrades. 

Kate  (to  Harold).  Look  at  her  ! 

She  does  it  well. 

[Ellen  extends  her  hand  to  Richard  indiffer 
ently ,  and  he  takes  it  an  instant,  bowing 
low  in  silence. 
Harold.    Of  course  she  does.    (To  Richard.) 

It 's  good 

To  see  you  here  again.    How  is  the  West? 
You  wear  its  colors  bravely.    You  have  changed. 
What  is  the  city  like  after  these  years  ? 

Richard.    An   orchestra,  playing   a    banging 

tune 
Into  incredible  silence. 

Kate.  Music  then  ? 

Richard.    Intricate  harmonies  —  my  ear  has 

lost 
The  clue. 

Ellen    (to   the  Doctor).    Your   patient,  is  it 

serious  ? 

Dr.  M.   (taking  off  his   overcoat).     A    little 
troublesome,  but  not  alarming. 


106  IT   PASSES   BY 

These  youngsters  trust  this  Indian  summer  day, 
But  I  must  put  my  faith  in  coats.    The  host 
ess  ? 

Ellen.   You  are  the  only  guest  she  sees  to-day. 

Dr.  Merrill.     Who    entertains    the    world. 

Look  at  that  stoop  ! 

If  this  young  athlete  had  not  struck  for  me 
I  should  be  digging  yet. 

Ellen.  Such  patient  crowds  ! 

Dr.  M.    A  mighty  funeral  ! 

Kate.  Is  it  not  a  pity 

He  could  not  live  to  see  it  ? 

Harold.  The  last  act 

Of  a  long  gaudy  melodrama. 

Dr.  M.  Listen  ! 

How  easily  does  youth  dispose  of  him, 
Who  played  so  large  a  role  !    At  least  admit 
He  took  the  stage  and  held  it,  even  dared 
Try  to  be  president. 

Harold.  Yes,  died  of  scheming. 

Dr.  M.    At  any  rate  he  did  things.    Come, 

confess  — 
How  long  since  you  have  voted  ? 

Harold.  I  refuse 

To  chronicle  my  virtues  to  the  shame 
Of  this  most  blatant  politician. 


IT   PASS  ES   BY  107 

Dr.  M.  Then  — 

Tell  me  —  whom  shall  we  nominate  next  June 
Instead  of  him  ? 

Harold.  Some  farmer  from  the  plough, 

Or  you,  or  me,  or  yonder  officer, 
Who  rides  so  like  a  turkey. 

Dr.  M.  It  will  be 

Strange   not    to    hear  his  voice    or  shout  his 

name. 
The  galleries  will  miss  him. 

Harold.  Yes,  their  hero. 

Dr.  M.  Well,  there  is  work  to  do  even  now. 

I  leave 
With  you  his  reputation. 

\¥he  Doctor,  who  has  been  retreating  to 
ward  the  door,  followed  by  Kate  and 
Harold,  now  goes  out  and  upstairs. 
Richard  approaches  Ellen,  whom  Phoebe 
is  trying  to  drag  to  the  window ,  and  speaks 
to  her,  quite  indifferent  as  to  whether  the 
others  hear  him  or  not.  A  brass  band, 
flaying  a  dirge,  begins  to  be  audible  in 
the  distance  from  the  south. 
Richard.  I  have  come 

Three  thousand  miles  to  have  a  talk  with  you. 
I  am  persuaded  you  will  not  refuse. 


io8          IT   PASSES   BY 

Five  years  of  thinking  make  me  sure  at  last 
That  it  is  right  to  see  you. 

Ellen.  I  will  hear 

What  you  may  say,  though  you  mistake,  I  think, 
To  be  so  sure. 

Richard.          Tell  me  the  place  —  the  time. 
Ellen.     It  must  be  here  and  now. 
Harold  (aside  to  Kate  —  looking  at  Richard). 

Look  at  them  now  ! 
Kate  (smiling).   Don't  you  think  we  can  see 

better  outdoors  ? 

Such  a  fine  dirge  is  coming,  and  beyond 
The  regulars  —  the  guns  ! 

Harold.  Yes,  let  us  join 

The  brave  unwashed,  beg  them   for  standing- 
room, 
And  be  good  socialists. 

\Exeunt  Harold  and   Kate,  to  the  front 

steps.    Ida  rises  from  the  window  seat. 
Phcebe.  May  I  go  too? 

Miss  Ellen,  may  I  ? 

Ellen.  Go  take  care  of  them. 

[Phcebe  pirouettes  gleefully,  seizes  Ida  by  the 
handy  and  they  go  out.  They,  the  crowded 
steps,  the  street,  etc.,  are  remotely  visible 
through  the  open  door. 


IT   PASSES   BY          109 

Richard.    Well  —  after  all  it  is  a  little  thing 
I  have  to  tell  you,  and  it  matters  not 
Where  it  is  spoken.    It  is  due  to  you, 
Whom  I  so  greatly  wronged,  that  I  should  say 
You  are  the  only  woman  in  the  world 
For  me,  and  will  be  always. 

Ellen.  Do  you  think 

I  value  your  regard  ? 

Richard.  No,  not  to-day, 

Nor  can  you  yet  believe  in  it.    Perhaps 
You  will  not  ever.    Yet  it  is  the  truth, 
And  such  small  reparation  as  may  lie 
In  such  a  truth  I  offer  you. 

Ellen.  In  time 

I  may  have  faith  in  you  again,  but  now 
This  seems  an  insult. 

Richard.  .       Leave  it  then  to  time, 

Or  else  forget  it.    I  am  going  back  — 
Back  to  the  desert.    There  is  one  thing  more 
That  should  be  said,  and  yet  I  know  not  how 
To  say  it.    You  are  strong ;  you  have  no  fear, 
Nor  any  need  of  service.    If  life  hurts  — 
You  will  close  with  it  and  conquer.   Yet  at  last, 
Some  day  when  you  are  weary  of  your  strength, 
When  all  the  hour  fails,  and  the  past  alone 
Looks  fair  and  sure,  you  may  be  willing  then 


iio          IT   PASSES   BY 

To  think  of  me  as  longing  for  a  chance 

To    serve  you,  even  the  slightest ;    you  may 

speak 
Thus  to    your  heart :    This  man,  to  whom  I 

gave 

My  first  young  foolish  ardor,  he  who  vowed 
To  love  me  always  arid  betrayed  the  vow, 
It  seems  that  he  has  kept  it  after  all 
And  somewhere  on  the  earth  he  lives  for  me. 

Ellen.  How  strange!  —  to  see  you  there,  to 

hear  your  voice 

Uttering  promises,  just  as  of  old, 
And  yet  to  feel  no  faith  !    I  did  not  know 
The  past  lay  dead  so  deep  that  you,  even  you, 
Would  seem  a  ghost  to  me. 

[The  music  of  the  dirge  grows  louder  in  the 
street. 

Richard.  And  yet  to  me 

It  is  the  only  thing  alive.    For  me 
The  summer  blooms  there  always,  and  the  storm 
That  wrecked  it  once  has  faded  into  light. 
I  cannot  tell  how  lovely  is  the  place, 
How  rich,  how  still. 

Ellen.  The  light  that  never  was  ! 

Richard.  It  is  the  garden  of  my  life.   To  you 
Whatever  fruits  may  grow  ! 


IT   PASSES   BY          in 

Ellen.  Will  it  be  sweet  — 

The  fruit  of  dead  hopes  and  corrupted  lives  ? 
Why  do  you  lead  me  toward  the  place  of  death 
I  fled  from  long  ago  ? 

Richard.  .  But  it  is  gone. 

Life  out  of  death,  bloom  out  of  decay  — 
So  runs  the  law.    Alone  there  on  the  plains, 
By  night  and  day,  under  the  sun  and  stars, 
The  law  has  driven  me  —  the  offended  law, 
Armed  with  its  vengeance.    And  I  fled  —  fled 

— fled  — 

Afraid  to  look.    Gaunt  summer  buried  me 
Deep  in  dry  storms,  the  livid  winter  rode 
Stiff  at  my  side,  and  still  I  was  afraid. 
Still  I  could  hear  the  clatter  and  the  cry 
Behind  me.    Well  —  at  last  I  clutched  my  fear 
And  turned.     Behold,  the  thing  that  followed 

me 

Was  love.   How  strangely  beautiful  it  was  — 
Austere  and  fair !    A  stillness  grew  around  me. 
Then  the  vast  world  came  close,  the  mighty  hills 
Drew  near  and   clasped  me,  even   the   bright 

white  moon 

Laid  her  cool  hand  upon  me.    And  I  knew 
The  sorrow  all  had  vanished,  and  the  joy 
Would  stay  with  me. 


ii2          IT   PASSES   BY 

Ellen.  When  one  may  be  alone 

Perhaps  'tis  easy  to  remember. 

Richard.  You  — 

You  have  forgotten  ? 

Ellen.  I  have  waked. 

Richard.  It  passed 

And  left  no  bitterness? 

Ellen.  How  can  I  tell? 

The  dream  just  vanished  and  the   truth  was 

there. 

And,  after  all,  the  truth  is  best  perhaps. 
I  owe  you  thanks  for  knowledge. 

Richard.  Once  I  feared 

Your  faith — so  luminous  it  was,  so  tempting 
To  the  black  winds.  And  afterwards  I  feared 
The  shadow  there.  I  took  the  shock  for  you, 
And  felt  a  darkness  falling.  Since  the  change, 
Since  my  great  night,  but  one  desire  has  held 

me  — 

To  reach  you  through  the  silence.  But  it  seemed 
So  far !    The  stars  are  awful  in  that  south  — 
Unwinking  eyes  of  the  great  noiseless  God, 
Conscious,  inscrutable.    I  watched  them  shine 
Through  the  keen  vivid  blue,  until  it  seemed 
Much  nearer  to  the  stars  than  to  your  feet. 

Ellen.  Yes  —  I  was  far  away. 


IT    PASSES   BY          113 

Richard.  Alone  in  crowds 

As  I  upon  the  desert. 

Ellen.  But  it  passed. 

Richard.    I  could  not  come. 

Ellen.  I  could  not  hear. 

Richard.  But  now 

After  the  years  of  longing,  suddenly 
The  spacious  earth  consented  —  all  its  wastes 
Of  sand  and  sage  ;  and  the  high  spheric  sky, 
Even  to  its  verge  of  suns  invisible, 
Consented,  and  I  came. 

Ellen.  How  strange  it  is  — 

Incredible  —  that  all  is  just  the  same, 
You  here,  and  I,  and  yet  the  love  is  gone ! 

Richard.    Not  strange. 

Ellen.  Did    not  I  call  it   by 

large  names  ? 

Eternal  and  unchangeable  it  was, 
Fate  ordered  it,  God  sanctioned  it,  our  souls 
Were  one  for  life  and  death. 

Richard.  For  life  and  death. 

Ellen.    I  have   never   been   so  sure  of  any 
thing, 

Never  so  sure.   And  yet  to-day  perhaps 
This  festival  of  death  is  made  for  that, 
And  the  long  dirges  mourn  it. 


£14          IT   PASSES   BY 

Richard.  Peace    be  with  it !  — 

And  honor! 

Ellen.          Peace  and  honor!    It  becomes 
A  happy  memory  which  has  been  a  shame. 
Now  I  may  light  white  candles  on  that  altar, 
Set  lilies  there. 

Richard.  I  bring  them,  and  from  me 

You  take  them.    Look  !    I  thank  you  from  my 

soul. 
[He  takes  her  hands,  and  they  look  in  each 

other  s  eyes  a  moment. 
Ellen.    Why  did  my  lover  leave  me  ? 
Richard.  Oh,  your  eyes 

Conjure  these  desolate  years  away  ! 

[He  drops  her  hands  and  turns  away. 
Ellen.  Tou  left  me. 

Richard.    Ask    it    of    him  —  the    scholar, 

general, 
President  almost. 

Ellen.  Unto  Caesar  then 

You  dare  appeal. 

Richard.  To  Caesar ! 

Ellen.  Hush  —  he  pays 

The  forfeit. 

\jThe  dirge  is  passing  the  house.  Soon  it  be 
gins  to  grow  slowly  fainter. 


IT   PASSES   BY          115 

Richard.  Lavishly  we  lay  all  down  — 

Ellen.    Why  ?  Why  ? 

Richard.  There  is  a  beast   that 

drives  us  on, 
And  a  dark  riddle  waiting  in  the  pit. 

Ellen.    And  in  the  pit  you  do  not  spare  the 

lost  — 
The  riddle  who  is  woman. 

Richard.  Once  she  was. 

Ages  ago,  before  such  brutes  as  I 
Made  her  a  devil.     The   score  is  old  between 

us  — 
Eternity  will  strike  the  balance  there. 

Ellen.    And  I  was  singing  up  those  mapled 

hills 

A  thousand  miles  away —  and  dreaming  dreams. 
I  should  have  stayed. 

Richard.  No  —  no,  I  was  not  fit. 

Undisciplined,  unguided,  all  my  life 
The  slave  of  impulse  —  no,  it  was  to  be, 
Must  be,  to  save  us. 

Ellen.  Though  we  died  of  it. 

Richard.    I  saw  you  lying  white,  in  a  scorched 

world. 

Ellen.  I   learned  to  be  alone,  and  not  afraid. 
Richard.    I  saw  you  always  —  so  the  courage 
came. 


1 16          IT    PASSES   BY 

My  life  had  been  a  garden  made  for  me ; 
Now  it  should  be  a  desert.    I  would  gnaw 
The  rocks  for  sustenance,  winnow  my  will 
Through  whirling  sand-storms.     I  would  take 

from  men 

Nothing,  from  fortune  nothing.    I  would  give 
The  leaping  beast  in  me  a  bitter  fight  — 

Ellen.     Hush!  —  I    grow    dizzy.      Let    me 

think  !  —  So  you  — 
The  traitor  and  deserter,  whom  I  swept 
Out  of  my  life  —  you  are  the  faithful  lover, 
And  I  the  faithless. 

Richard.  You  were  brave. 

Ellen.  But  now  — 

Now  you  are  here,  a  man,  a  conqueror  — 
Oh  yes,  I  see  the  battle  in  your  face, 
The  victory  in  your  eyes —  now  you  are  here. 
Why  do  I  fail  ? 

Richard.  Good  God  !   it  is  not  you  ! 

Ellen.    Have   I  grown  hard  while  you  were 

growing  great ; 

Self-righteous,  while  that  fight  for  life  or  death 
Taught  you  humility  ?    I  must  have  lost 
Some  fineness  of  the  soul  that  once  was  mine, 
Or  I  could  take  your  hand  and  go  with  you 
Up  to  the  mountains. 


IT   PASSES   BY          117 

Richard.  Hush  ! 

Ellen.  The  saddest  thing 

Is  change.    I  thought  I  could  not  live  ;  and  then, 
When  death  refused  me,  knew  I  could  not  smile 
Ever  again.    And  then  —  I  am  ashamed 
To  tell  how  soon  my  life  bloomed  out  again, 
And  all  the  past  of  ecstasy  and  pain 
Was  utterly  gone,  as  it  had  never  been. 

Richard.    The  only  thing  that  passes  not. 

Ellen.  I  wondered 

If  anything  endured,  if  human  souls 
Forgot  their  seasons  like  the  trees ;  I  dared  not 
Measure  the  perfidy.    And  even  to-day. 
It  frightens  me  to  feel,  deep  in  my  heart, 
The  quest  of  love,  to  search  the  eyes  of  men  — 
Each  casual  new  one — with  that  secret  hope. 
Oh,  you  despise  me  ! 

[  She  sinks  into  a  chair  >  burying  her  face  in 
her  hands.  'The  dirge  in  the  distance  comes 
to  an  end  and  stops. 

Richard.  Nothing  can  forget. 

Each  summer  leaves  the  record  of  its  growth 
Even  in  the  tree.  So  you  have  won  from  me 
The  power  of  greater  love. 

Ellen.  Is  it  not  shame  — 

This  eagerness  that  will  not  rest  from  seeking, 


n8          IT   PASSES   BY 

That  conjures  dreams  to  feed  on,  seals  my  heart 
Lest  lips  and  eyes  betray  it  ?    What  are  we 
More  than  the  beasts,  if  every  sense  allures  us. 
And  nothing  steadfast  proves  the  ruling  soul  ? 
And  what  am  I  more  than  that  other  woman, 
Save  for  the  casual  fate  which  cast  me  here, 
And  her  upon  the  street  ? 

Richard  (seizing  her  wrists).    Be  still !    Good 

Heaven  ! 
How  ignorantly  — 

Ellen.  I  have  shocked  you  —  so  — 

Forget  me  now  —  you  know  me  as  I  am. 
I  never  dared  confess  it  to  myself. 

Richard.    The  quest  of  love,  you  call  it.    You 

are  blind  — 

It  is  the  quest  of  God.    You  will  not  find 
The  starry  soul  that  you  are  looking  for, 
Even  at  the  marriage  altar.    But  at  last 
This  violent  tumult  of  the  blood  will  still 
Into  a  deep  serenity,  and  then 
The  big  round  world  with  all    its  throng  of 

souls 
Will  be  too  little  for  your  love. 

Ellen  (looking  up  at  him).          Perhaps 
I  shall  no  longer  feel  ashamed,  my  friend, 
Now  I  have  told. 


IT    PASSES   BY          119 

Richard.  Shame  is  a  deadly  thing  — 

A  curtain  at  the  windows  of  the  soul. 

Ellen.    I  will  begin  to  learn  —  I  have  begun. 
For  knowledge  is  the  thing  —  I  thought  that 

out  — 
To  save  us  from  ourselves.    Do  we  not  need 

it  — 

We  women  whom  long  ages  have  shut  up 
With  mad  emotions  ?    It  is  sweet  to  feel 
The  cool  white  hand  of  knowledge  on  my  brow 
And  bid  her  lead  me  toward  the  far-off  light. 
Perhaps  at  last  — 

Richard.  At  last  — 

Ellen.  I  may  be  fit 

To  do  some  work  in  the  world. 

Richard.  And  all  those  years 

The  thought  of  you  will  be  my  gladness. 

Ellen.  Strange ! 

Shall  I  learn  to  be  glad  in  all  those  years  ? 

[Phoebe  comes  tripping  in. 
Phoebe.    Miss  Ellen,  you  're  not  looking. 
[Ellen  turns  suddenly  and  catches  the  child 

up  with  a  passionate  embrace. 
Ellen.  But  we  will. 

Phcebe.    It 's  coming —  Mr.  Humphrey  says 
it  is  — 


I2O          IT   PASSES   BY 

With  six  black  horses,  and  a  lot  of  men 
Singing  a  song. 

Ellen.  And  will  you  show  it  to  us  ? 

Phoebe.    It 's  big  and  black,  with  feathers  wav 
ing  on  it. 

It 's  coming  next  —  and  these  are  the  Hussars. 

\¥hey  approach  the  windows. 

Ellen.     Splendid  !  —  see    how    their   horses 

shine  and  prance  ! 
Phcebe.    Why  do  you  stay  in  here  ? 
Richard.  Because  we  see 

Things  even  more  wonderful.    Have  you  not 

heard 
She  is  a  princess  ? 

Phtebe.  Who  ? 

Richard.  Miss  Ellen  is  — 

A  princess  with  a  wand.   She  has  a  throne 
Up  in  the  mountains. 

Phcebe.  Will  she  sit  upon  it  ? 

Richard    (sitting  down  and  taking  Phoebe  on 
his  knee).    A  throne  made  of  new  gold, 
with  draperies 
Torn  down  from  flaming  worlds  —  purple  and 

yellow, 

Queer  blues  that  burn  like  scarlet,  till  the  sun 
Boils  over,  streaks  the  whole  round  polished  sky 


IT   PASSES   BY          121 

With  orange  and  hot  green,  and  slowly  then 
Simmers  away.    The  night  comes  sailing  softly 
Above  her  throne,  and  cools  the  ashen  air 
Into  a  vast  clear  fathomless  white  blue 
That  shows  the  stars   to  her  —  such  flashing 

stars  — 
Each  one  a  soul  that  sings. 

Phoebe.  And  is  it  far  ? 

Richard.    As  far  as  heaven,  perhaps. 
Ellen.  Further  than  death. 

Phoebe.    I   saw  a  princess  once.    She  had  a 

star 
Lit  on  her  forehead. 

[  'To  the  south  —  right  —  a  dirge  begins ', 
chanted  by  mens  voices,  with  long  pauses 
between  strophes.  During  the  first  stanza, 
Isabel  comes  down  the  stair,  followed  by 
the  Doctor.  Isabel  pauses  at  the  door 
an  instant,  looking  with  keen  anxiety 
and  hope  at  the  three  seated  unobservant 
in  the  window.  The  next  instant  Phoebe 
runs  to  her  mother,  followed  by  Richard. 

(Song  without?) 

Soldier,  ruler,  hero,  friend  — 
In  thy  train  once  more  we  wend. 
Lead  us  onward  to  the  end. 


122          IT   PASSES   BY 

Phoebe.  Mother,  come  and  look ! 

Isabel    Ah,  Richard ! 

Richard.  Dear  my  lady  ! 

\He  takes  her  hand  and  bends  over  it.  Kate, 
Ida,  and  Harold  enter  behind  her  from 
the  steps. 

Isabel.  It  is  good 

To  win  you  from  the  desert,  to  expect 
Your  shadow  at  my  door. 

Richard.  But  I  have  come 

To  say  good-by. 

Isabel.          No  —  no  —  you  shall  not  say  it. 
[She  glances  beyond  at  Ellen,  who  at  Rich 
ard's  word  had  turned  to  look  out. 
Harold   (to  Kate).    She  has  a  heart,  you  say. 
Kate.  If  she  has  not  — 

Harold.    Ah,  Mrs.  Everett,  to  you  at  last 
Our  homage  ! 

Isabel.  Did  the  other  guests  make  way  ? 

Kate.   They  all  stood  up,  like  silent  sentinels, 
And  then,  when  we  besought,  they  all  sat  down. 
And  so,  row  upon  row,  we  gazed  at  ease. 
Harold.    They  were  so  still  that  even  my  elo 
quent  tongue 
Caught  the  disease. 

'The  Doctor.  Keep  it  a  moment  more. 


IT   PASSES   BY          123 

(Song  without.) 

Life  was  lavish,  life  was  bold. 
Now  her  blows  and  boons  are  told, 
Now  her  dreams  thine  eyes  behold. 
Harold.    Nay,  but  not  all  her  dreams  ! 
'The  Doctor.  Now  verily 

Doth    the    old    order    change,    since    he    can 

die. 
Isabel.    How  vast  the  infinite  must  seem  to 

him 
Who  was  so  busy  in  his  little  world! 

Richard.    He  took  its  error  frankly  with  its 

good, 
Lived  on  the  level  of  his  time. 

Harold.  Perhaps, 

But  not  above  it. 

Ellen.  Not  a  prophet  —  but  — 

Harold.    A  type,  an  average. 
Ellen.  And  something  more  — 

A  man. 

Isabel.    And  with  a  heart ! 
The  Doctor.  And  something  more  — 

A  leader. 

Isabel.    Publicly  and  privately 
He  erred  —  and  yet  — 

Richard.  We  bow  to  let  him  pass. 


124         I  T   PASSES   BY 

Phcebe  (clapping  her  hands  —  at  the  window}. 

It 's  here  ! 
\_All  stand  silent  with  bowed  heads.    'The 

chant  grows  loud  without. 
On  the  highway  fared  thy  feet. 
Marching  ever,  brave  and  fleet, 
Through  the  wind,  the  dust,  the  heat. 
Phoebe  (looking  up  at  Richard).    Why  do  they 

sing  ?    Is  it  for  God  ? 
[Harold  smiles^    and  some  of  the   others. 

Richard  stoops  and  lifts  her. 
Richard.    For  God,  or  else    how  could    he 

know  ? 

Ellen.  Ah,  Phoebe  ! 

^The  Doctor.    So  he  is  gone  ! 
Harold.  And  we  must  go. 

Isabel.  And  I  — 

Back  to  the  sick. 

Harold.  I  to  the  office. 

Kate.  I  — 

To  —  which,  of  half  an  hundred  things  that 

claim  me  ? 
Harold  (to  Richard).    And  you  —  what  is  it 

calls  you  from  the  West  ? 
Richard.    Dry  wastes,  that  thirst  for  rivers. 


IT   PASSES   BY          125 

Harold.  You  will  reap 

Harvests,  where  never  blade  of  grass  has  grown. 
Ellen.    The  wilderness  will  sing  for  you. 
Richard.  And  you  — - 

Ellen.    Oh,  let  me  learn  ! 
Phoebe.  Is  it  all  over  now  ? 

[The  chant  is  heard  more  faintly. 

Comes  the  long  sweet  solemn  night. 

Sleep  and  silence  close  the  fight. 

Hush  —  till  morn  reveals  the  right. 


THE    END. 


Electrolysed  and  Printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  &•  Co. 
Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


, 

b 


• 


NEDWICK'S  BOOK  STOKb 

171   NO.  MICHIGAN  AVE. 

CHICAGO  1.  ILL. 
"OUT-OF-PRINT-BOOKS"  100 


